TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 


They  stood  so  in  reality  only  a  flash  of  seconds.     Page  34. 


fold  in  the  Hills 


MARAH  ELLIS  RYAN 


THE    BONDWOMAN,"  "THAT  Gmi.  MONTANA,"   "A  PAGAN 
OF    THK  ALI.EGHANIES,"   "!N    LOVE'S    DOMAIN,"  "A 
FLOWER    OF    FRANCE,"    "MERZE,"    "Miss 
MOCCASINS,"  "SQUAW  ELOUISE." 


CHICAGO      NEW  YORK 

RAND    McNALLY  &  COMPAN\ 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1891,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co.,  Chicago. 
Copyright,  1905,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co.,  Chicago, 

All  Rights  Reserved. 

(Told  in  the  Hills) 


IN    ALL    REVERENCE — IN    ALL    GRATITUDE 
TO    THE    FRIENDS    GRANTED    ME    BY 

THE  WEST 


FAYETTE  SPRINGS,  PENN. 


KOPA  MESIKA — 

Nika  sikks  klaksta  kumtucks — 
Klaksta  yakwa  mamook  elahan, 
Nika  mahsie — mahsie  kwaneswn. 

M.  E.  R. 


Thou  shalt  not  see  thy  brother's  ox,  or  his  sheep,  go  astray. 
.      .      .     Thou  shalt  bring  it  unto  thine  own  house,  and  it 
shall  be  with  thee  until  thy  brother  seek  after  it,  and  thou  shalt 
restore  it  to  him  again.          ...... 

.     And  with  all  lost  things  of  thy  brother's  which  he  hath 
lost,  and  thou  hast  found,  shalt  thou  do  likewise.      . 

In  any  case  thou  shalt  deliver  him  the  pledge  again  when 
the  sun  goeth  down. — Deuteronomy. 


TOLD  IN  THE 


PART   FIRST 


THE  PLEDGE 


"The  only  one  of  the  name  who  is  not  a  gentleman"; 
those  words  were  repeated  over  and  over  by  a  young 
fellow  who  walked,  one  autumn  morning,  under  the 
shade  of  old  trees  and  along  a  street  of  aristocratic 
houses  in  old  New  Orleans. 

He  would  have  been  handsome  had  it  not  been  for 
the  absolutely  wicked  expression  of  his  face  as  he 
muttered  to  himself  while  he  walked.  He  looked  about 
twenty-five — dark  and  tall — so  tall  as  to  be  a  noticeable 
man  among  many  men,  and  so  well  proportioned,  and 
so  confidently  careless  in  movement  as  not  to  be  ungainly 
— the  confidence  of  strength. 

Some  negroes  whom  he  passed  turned  to  look  after 
him,  even  the  whites  he  met  eyed  him  seriously.  He 
looked  like  a  man  off  a  sleepless  journey,  his  eyes  were 

9 


10  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

bloodshot;  his  jfac6  haggard,  and  over  all  was  a  malignant 
expression  as  of  lurking  devilishness. 

;  He  -stopped;  at.  a  House  set  back  from  the  street,  and 
half-smothered  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  great  creep 
ing  vines  that  flung  out  long  arms  from  the  stone  walls. 
There  was  a  stately  magnificence  about  its  grand 
entrance,  and  its  massive  proportions — it  showed  so 
plainly  the  habitation  of  wealth.  Evidently  the  ill- 
natured  looking  individual  was  not  a  frequent  visitor 
there,  for  he  examined  the  house,  and  the  numbers 
about,  with  some  indecision;  then  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
horse-block,  in  the  stone  of  which  a  name  was  carved. 
A  muttered  something,  which  was  not  a  blessing,  issued 
from  his  lips  as  he  read  it.  but  with  indecision  at  an  end 
he  strode  up  the  walk  to  the  house.  A  question  was 
answered  by  the  dubious -looking  darky  at  the  door, 
and  a  message  was  sent  somewhere  to  the  upper  regions ; 
then  the  darky,  looking  no  less  puzzled,  requested  the 
gentleman  to  follow  him  to  the  "Young  Massa's"  study. 
The  gentleman  did  so,  noting  with  those  wicked  side 
glances  of  his  the  magnificence  of  the  surroundings,  and 
stopping  short  before  a  picture  of  a  brunette,  willowy 
girl  that  rested  on  an  easel.  The  face  was  lovely  enough 
to  win  praise  from  any  man,  but  an  expression,  strangely 
akin  to  that  bestowed  on  the  carven  name  outside, 
escaped  him.  Through  the  lattice  of  the  window  the 
laughter  of  woman  came  to  him — as  fresh  and  cheery  as 
the  light  of  the  young  sun,  and  bits  of  broken  sentences 
also — words  of  banter  and  retort. 

"Ah,  but  he  is  beautiful — your  husband!"  sighed  a 
girlish  voice  with  the  accent  of  France;  "so  impressibly 
charming!  And  so  young.  You  two  children!" 

Some  gay  remonstrance  against  childishness  was 
returned,  and  then  the  first  voice  went  on: 


THE  PLEDGE.  11 

"And  the  love  all  of  one  quick  meeting,  and  one  quick, 
grand  passion  that  only  the  priest  could  bring  cure  for? 
And  how  shy  you  were,  and  how  secret — was  it  not 
delightful?  Another  Juliet  and  her  Romeo.  Only  it 
is  well  your  papa  is  not  so  ill-pleased." 

"Why  should  he  be?  My  family  is  no  better  than  my 
husband's — only  some  richer;  but  we  never  thought 
of  that — we  two.  I  thought  of  his  beautiful  changeable 
eyes,  and  he  thought  of  my  black  ones,  and— well,  I 
came  home  to  papa  a  wife,  and  my  husband  said  only, 
'  I  love  her,'  when  we  were  blamed  for  the  haste  and  the 
secrecy,  and  papa  was  won — as  I  think  every  one  is,  by 
his  charming  boyishness;  but,"  with  a  little  laugh,  "he 
is  not  a  boy." 

"Though  he  is  younger  than  yourself?" 

"Well,  what  then?  I  am  twenty-three.  You  see 
we  are  quite  an  old  couple,  for  he  is  almost  within  a  year 
of  being  as  old.  Come ;  my  lord  has  not  yet  come  down. 
I  have  time  to  show  you  the  roses.  I  am  sure  they  are 
the  kind  you  want." 

Their  chatter  and  gaiety  grew  fainter  as  they  walked 
away  from  the  window,  and  their  playful  chat  added 
no  light  to  the  visitor's  face.  He  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  with  the  eager  restlessness  of  some  caged  thing. 
A  step  sounded  outside  that  brought  him  to  a  halt — a 
step  and  a  mellow  voice  with  the  sweetness  of  youth  in 
it.  Then  the  door  opened  and  a  tall  form  entered 
swiftly,  and  quick  words  of  welcome  and  of  surprise 
came  from  him  as  he  held  out  his  hand  heartily. 

But  it  was  not  taken.  The  visitor  stuck  his  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  surveyed  his  host  with  a 
good  deal  of  contempt. 

Yet  he  was  a  fine,  manly -looking  fellow,  almost  as  tall 
as  his  visitor,  and  fairer  in  coloring.  His  hair  was  a 


12  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

warmer  brown,  while  the  other  man's  was  black.  His 
eyes  were  frank  and  open,  while  the  other's  were  scowl 
ing  and  contracted.  They  looked  like  allegorical  types 
of  light  and  darkness  as  they  stood  there,  yet  something 
in  the  breadth  of  forehead  and  form  of  the  nose  gave  a 
suggestion  of  likeness  to  their  faces. 

The  younger  one  clouded  indignantly  as  he  drew  back 
his  offered  hand. 

"Why,  look  here,  old  fellow,  what's  up?"  he  asked 
hastily,  and  then  the  indignation  fled  before  some 
warmer  feeling,  and  he  went  forward  impulsively,  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"Just  drop  that,"  growled  his  visitor,  "I  didn't 
come  here  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  for  business — yes — 
you  can  bet  your  money  on  that ! " 

His  host  laughed  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  you  don't  look  as  if  you  come  on  a  pleasure 
trip,"  he  agreed,  "and  I  think  you  might  look  a  little 
more  pleasant,  considering  the  occasion  and — and — 
everything.  I  thought  father  would  come  down  sure, 
when  I  wrote  I  was  married,  but  I  didn't  expect  to  see 
anyone  come  in  this  sort  of  a  temper.  What  is  it  ?  Has 
your  three-year-old  come  in  last  in  the  fall  race,  or  have 
you  lost  money  on  some  other  fellow's  stock,  and  what 
the  mischief  do  you  mean  by  sulking  at  me  ? ' ' 

"It  isn't  the  three-year-old,  and  it  isn't  money  lost," 
and  the  dark  eyes  were  watching  every  feature  of  the 
frank  young  face;  "the  business  I've  come  on  is — you." 

"Look  here,"  and  the  young  fellow  straightened  up 
with  the  conviction  that  he  had  struck  the  question, 
"is  it  because  of  my — marriage?" 

"Rather."     Still  those  watchful  eyes  never  changed. 

"Well,"  and  the  fair  face  flushed  a  little,  "I  suppose 
ft  wasn't  just  the  correct  thing;  but  you're  not  exactly 


THE  PLEDGE.  13 

the  preacher  for  correct  deportment,  are  you?"  and 
the  words,  though  ironical,  were  accompanied  by  such 
a  bright  smile  that  no  offense  could  be  taken  from 
them.  "But  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  Sit  down. 
I  would  have  sent  word  before,  if  I'd  suspected  it  my 
self,  but  I  didn't.  Now  don't  look  so  glum,  old  fellow. 
I  never  imagined  you  would  care.  You  see  we  were 
invited  to  make  up  a  yachting  party  and  go  to  Key 
West.  We  never  had  seen  each  other  until  the  trip, 
and — well,  we  made  up  for  the  time  we  had  lost  in 
the  rest  of  our  lives;  though  I  honestly  did  not  think 
of  getting  married — any  more  than  you  would.  And 
then,  all  at  once,  what  little  brains  I  had  were  upset. 
It  began  in  jest,  one  evening  in  Key  West,  and  the 
finale  of  it  was  that  before  we  went  to  sleep  that  night 
we  were  married.  No  one  knew  it  until  we  got  back  to 
New  Orleans,  and  then  I  wrote  home  at  once.  Now, 
I'm  ready  for  objections." 

''When  you  left  home  you  were  to  be  back  in  two 
months — it  is  four  now.  Why  didn't  you  come?" 

"Well,  you  know  I  was  offered  the  position  of  assistant 
here  to  Doctor  Grenier;  that  was  too  good  to  let 

go." 

"Exactly;  but  you  could  have  got  off,  I  reckon,  to 
have  spent  your  devoted  father's  birthday  at  home — 
if  you  had  wanted  to." 

"He  was  your  father  first,"  was  the  good-humored 
retort. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  home?" 

There  was  a  hesitation  in  the  younger  face.  For  the 
first  time  he  looked  ill  at  ease. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  give  you  any  reason 
except  that  I  did  not  want  to,"  he  returned,  and  then 
he  arose,  walking  back  and  forth  a  couple  of  times 


14  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

across  the  room  and  stopping  at  a  window,  with  his 
back  to  ^ his  visitor.  "But  I  will,"  he  added,  impul 
sively.  I  stayed  away  on  account  of— Annie." 

The  dark  eyes  fairly  blazed  at  the  name 

"Yes?" 

"I— I  was  a  fool  when  I  was  home  last  spring,"  con 
tinued  the  young  fellow,  still  with  his  face  to  the  win- 
"I  had  never  realized  before  that  she  had  grown 
up  or  that  she  was  prettier  than  anyone  I  knew,  until 
you  warned  me  about  it — you  remember?" 

"I  reckon  I  do,"  was  the  grim  reply. 

"Well,  I  tried  to  be  sensible.     I  did  try,"  he  pro 
tested,  though  no  contradiction  was  made.     ''And  after 
I  left  I  concluded  I  had  better  stay  away  until—well 
until   we    were    both    a    little    older  "and    more    level 
headed." 

"It's  a  pity  you  didn't  reach  that  idea  before  you 
left,"  said  the  other  significantly 
"What!" 

"And  before  you  turned  back  for  that  picture  you 
had  forgotten." 

"What  do  you  mean"  and  for  the  first  time  a  sort  of 
terror  shone  in  his  face— a  dread  of  the  dark  eyes  that 
were  watching  him  so  cruelly.  "Tell  me  what  it  is 
you  mean,  brother." 

"You  can  just  drop  that  word,"  was  the  cold  remark. 
"I  haven't  any  relatives  to  my  knowledge.  Your 
father  told  me  this  morning  I  was  the  only  one  of  the 
name  who  was  not  a  gentleman.  I  reckon  I'll  get 
along  without  either  father  or  brother  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.  The  thing  I  came  here  to  see  about  is  the 
homestead.  It  is  yours  and  mine— or  will  be  some 
day.  What  do  you  intend  doing  with  your  share?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  ready  to  make  my  will  yet,"  said 


THE  PLEDGE.  15 

the  other,   still  looking  uneasy   as   he  waited  further 
explanations. 

"I  rather  think  you'll  change  your  mind  about  that, 
and  fix  it  right  here,  and  now.  To-day  I  want  you  to 
transfer  every  acre  of  your  share  to  Annie." 

"What?" 

"To  insure  her  the  home  you  promised  your  mother 
she  should  always  have." 

' '  But  look  here — 

"To  insure  it  for  her  and — her  child." 

The  face  at  the  window  was  no  longer  merely  startled, 
it  was  white  as  death. 

"Good  God!  You  don't  mean  that!"  he  gasped. 
"It  is  not  true.  It  can't  be  true!" 

"You  contemptible  cur!  You  damnable  liar!"  mut 
tered  the  other  through  his  teeth.  "You  sit  there  like 
the  whelp  that  you  are,  telling  me  of  this  woman  you 
have  married,  with  not  a  thought  of  that  girl  up  in 
Kentucky  that  you  had  a  right  to  marry.  Shooting 
you  wouldn't  do  her  any  good,  or  I  wouldn't  leave  the 
work  undone.  Now  I  reckon  you'll  make  the  transfer." 

The  other  had  sat  down  helplessly,  with  his  head  in 
his  hands. 

"I  can't  believe  it — I  can't  believe  it,"  he  repeated 
heavily.  "Why — why  did  she  not  write  to  me?" 

"It  wasn't  an  easy  thing  to  write,  I  reckon,"  said  the 
other  bitterly,  "and  she  waited  for  you  to  come  back. 
She  did  send  one  letter,  but  you  were  out  on  the  water 
with  your  fine  friends,  and  it  was  returned.  The  next 
we  heard  was  the  marriage.  Word  got  there  two  days 
ago,  and  then — she  told  me." 

"You!"  and  he  really  looked  unsympathetic  enough 
to  exempt  him  from  being  chosen  as  confidant  of  heart 
secrets. 


16  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Yes;  and  she  shan't  be  sorry  for  it  if  I  can  help  it. 
What  about  that  transfer?" 

"I'll  make  it;"  and  the  younger  man  rose  to  his  feet 
again  with  eyes  in  which  tears  shone.  "I'll  do  any 
thing  under  God's  heaven  for  her!  I've  never  got  rid 
of  the  sight  of  her  face.  It — it  hoodooed  me.  I 
couldn't  get  rid  of  it! — or  of  remorse.  I  thought  it 
best  to  stay  away,  we  were  so  young  to  marry,  and  there 
was  my  profession  to  work  for  yet;  and  then  on  top  of 
all  my  sensible  plans  there  came  that  invitation  on  the 
yacht — and  so  you  know  the  whole  story;  and  now — 
what  will  become  of  her?" 

"You  fix  that  transfer,  and  I'll  look  after  her." 

"You!     I  don't  deserve  this  of  you,  and — " 

"No;  I  don't  reckon  you  do,"  returned  the  other, 
tersely ;  ' '  and  when  you — damn  your  conceit ! — catch  me 
doing  that  or  anything  else  on  your  account,  just  let 
me  know.  It  isn't  for  either  one  of  you,  for  that  matter. 
It's  because  I  promised." 

The  younger  dropped  his  arms  and  head  on  the 
table. 

"You  promised!"  he  groaned.  "I — I  promised  as 
well  as  you,  and  mother  believed  me — trusted  me, 
and,  now — oh,  mother!  mother!" 

His  remorseful  emotion  did  not  stir  the  least  sym 
pathy  in  his  listener,  only  a  chilly  unconcern  as  to  his 
feelings  in  the  matter. 

"You,  you  cried  just  about  that  way  when  you  made 
the  promise,"  he  remarked  indifferently.  "It  was 
wasted  time  and  breath  then,  and  I  reckon  it's  the  same 
thing  now.  You  can  put  in  the  rest  of  your  life  in  the 
wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth  business  if  you  want  to 
—you  might  get  the  woman  you  married  to  help  you, 
if  you  tell  her  what  she  has  for  a  husband.  But  just 


THE  PLEDGE.  17 

now  there  are  other  things  to  attend  to.  I  air  leaving 
this  part  of  the  country  in  less  than  six  hours,  and  this 
thing  must  be  settled  first.  I  want  your  promise  to 
transfer  to  Annie  all  interest  you  have  in  the  home 
stead  during  your  lifetime,  and  leave  it  to  her  by  will 
in  case  the  world  is  lucky  enough  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"I  promise." 

His  head  was  still  on  the  table;  he  did  not  look  up 
or  resent  in  any  way  the  taunts  thrown  at  him.  He 
seemed  utterly  crushed  by  the  revelations  he  had  lis 
tened  to. 

"And  another  thing  I  want  settled  is,  that  you  are 
never  again  to  put  foot  on  that  place  or  in  that  house, 
or  allow  the  woman  you  married  to  go  there,  that  you 
will  neither  write  to  Annie  nor  try  to  see  her." 

"But  there  might  be  circumstances — 

"There  are  no  circumstances  that  will  keep  me  from 
shooting  you  like  the  dog  you  are,  if  you  don't  make 
that  promise,  and  keep  it,"  said  the  other  deliberately. 
"I  don't  intend  to  trust  to  your  word.  But  you'll  never 
find  me  too  far  out  of  the  world  to  get  back  here  if  you 
make  it  necessary  for  me  to  come.  And  the  promise 
I  expect  is  that  you'll  never  set  foot  on  the  old  place 
again  without  my  consent —  '  and  the  phrase  was  too 
ironical  to  leave  much  room  for  hope. 

"I  promise.  I  tell  you  I'll  do  anything  to  make 
amends,"  he  moaned  miserably. 

"Your  whole  worthless  life  wouldn't  do  that!"  was 
the  bitter  retort.  "Now,  there  is  one  thing  more  I 
want  understood,"  and  his  face  became  more  set  and 
hardened;  "Annie  and  her  child  are  to  live  in  the  house 
that  should  be  theirs  by  right,  and  they  are  to  live 
there  respected— do  you  hear?  That  man  you  call 
father  has  about  as  much  heart  in.  him  as  a  sponge. 


18  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

He  would  turn  her  out  of  the  house  if  he  knew  the  truth t 
and  in  this  transfer  of  yours  he  is  to  know  nothing  of 
the  reason — understand  that.  He  is  quite  ready  to 
think  it  prompted  by  your  generous,  affectionate  heart j 
and  the  more  he  thinks  that,  the  better  it  will  be  for 
Annie.  You  will  have  a  chance  to  pose  for  the  rest 
of  your  life  as  one  of  the  most  honorable  of  men,  and 
the  most  loyal  to  a  dead  mother's  trust,"  and  a  sound 
that  would  have  been  a  laugh  but  for  its  bitterness 
broke  from  him  as  he  walked  to  the  door;  that  will  suit 
you,  I  reckon.  One  more  lie  doesn't  matter,  and  the 
thing  I  expect  you  to  do  is  to  make  that  transfer  to-day 
and  send  it  to  Annie  with  a  letter  that  anyone  could 
read,  and  be  none  the  wiser — the  only  letter  you're 
ever  to  write  her.  You  have  betrayed  that  trust;  it's 
mine  now." 

''And  you'll  be  worth  it,"  burst  out  the  other  heart- 
brokenly;  "worth  a  dozen  times  over  more  than  I  ever 
could  be  if  I  tried  my  best.  You'll  take  good  care 
of  her,  and — and — good  God!  If  I  could  only  speak 
to  her  once!" 

"If  you  do,  I'll  know  it,  and  I'll  kill  you!"  said  the 
man  at  the  door. 

He  was  about  to  walk  out  when  the  other  arose 
bewilderedly. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  and  his  livid  face  was  convulsed 
pitifully.  He  was  so  little  more  than  a  boy.  "This 
that  you  have  told  me  has  muddled  my  head.  I  can't 
think.  I  know  the  promises,  and  I'll  keep  them.  If 
shooting  myself  would  help  her,  I'd  do  that;  but  you 
say  you  are  leaving  the  country,  and  Annie  is  to  live 
on  at  the  old  place,  and — and  yet  be  respected?  I 
can't  understand  how,  with — under  the — the  circum 
stances.  I — " 


"//  you  do,  I'll  know  it,  and  I'll  kill  you!"     Page  18. 


THE  PLEDGE.  19 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  you  can,"  scowled  the  other, 
altogether  unmoved  by  the  despairing  eyes  and  broken, 
remorseful  words.  "It  isn't  natural  that  you  should 
understand  a  man,  or  how  a  man  feels;  but  Annie's 
name  shall  be  one  you  had  a  right  to  give  her  four 
months  ago — 

"What  are  you  saying?"  broke  in  the  other  with 
feverish  intensity ; ' '  tell  me !  tell  me  what  it  is  you  mean ! ' ' 

"I  mean  that  she  shan't  be  cheated  out  of  a  name  for 
herself  and  child  by  your  damned  rascality !  Her  name 
for  the  rest  of  her  life  will  be  the  same  as  yours — just 
remember  that  when  you  forward  that  transfer.  She  is 
my  wife.  We  were  married  an  hour  before  I  started." 

Then  the  door  closed,  and  the  dark,  malignant  looking 
fellow  stalked  out  into  the  morning  sunlight,  and  through 
the  scented  walk  where  late  lillies  nodded  as  he  passed. 
He  seemed  little  in  keeping  with  their  fragrant  white 
ness,  for  he  looked  not  a  whit  less  scowlingly  wicked 
than  on  his  entrance;  and  of  some  men  working  on  the 
lawn,  one  said  to  another: 

"Looks  like  he  got  de  berry  debbel  in  dem  snappin' 
eyes—Fee  how  dey  shine.  Mighty  rakish  young  genel- 
man  to  walk  out  o'  dat  doah — look  like  he  been  on  a 
big  spree." 

And  when  the  bride  and  her  friend  came  chattering 
in,  with  their  hands  full  of  roses,  they  found  a  strange, 
unheard-of  thing  had  happened.  The  tall  young  hus 
band,  so  strong,  so  long  acclimated,  had  succumbed  to 
the  heat  of  the  morning,  or  the  fragrance  of  the  tube 
rose  beside  him,  and  had  fallen  in  a  fainting  fit  by  the 
door. 


PART   SECOND 

"A  CULTUS  CORRIE" 
CHAPTER  I. 

ON    SCOT'S    MOUNTAIN. 

''The  de'il  tak'  them  wi'  their  weeman  folk,  whose 
nerves  are  too  delicate  for  a  squaw  man,  or  an  Injun 
guide.  I'd  tak'  no  heed  o'  them  if  I  was  well,  an'  I'll 
do  less  now  I'm  plagued  wi'  this  reminder  o'  that  griz 
zly's  hug.  It  gives  me  many's  the  twinge  whilst  out 
lookin'  to  the  traps." 

"Where'?  your  gallantry,  MacDougall?"  asked  a 
deep,  rather  musical  voice  from  the  cabin  door;  "and 
your  national  love  for  the  'winsome  sex,'  as  I've  heard 
you  call  it?  If  ladies  are  with  them  you  can't  refuse." 

"Can  I  not?  Well,  I  can  that  same  now,"  said  the 
first  speaker,  emphasizing  his  speech  by  the  vim  with 
which  he  pitched  a  broken-handled  skillet  into  the 
cupboard — a  cupboard  made  of  a  wooden  box.  "May- 
haps  you  think  I  haven't  seen  a  white  woman  these 
six  months,  I'll  be  a  breakin'  my  neck  to  get  to  their 
camp  across  there.  Well,  I  will  not;  they  may  be 
all  very  fine,  no  doubt— folk  from  the  East;  but  ye 
well  know  a  lot  o'  tenderfeet  in  the  bush  are  a  sight 
worse  to  tak'  the  care  of  than  the  wild  things  they'll 
be  tryin'  to  hunt.  'A  man's  a  fool  who  stumbles  over 
the  same  stone  twice,'  is  an  old,  true  say  in',  an'  I  know 
what  I'm  talkin'  of.  It's  four  years  this  autumn 
since  I  was  down  in  the  Walla  Walla  country,  an' 

20 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  21 

there  was  a  fine  party  from  the  East,  just  as  these  are; 
an'  they  would  go  up  into  the  Blue  Mountains,  an' 
they  would  have  me  for  a  guide;  an'  if  the  Lord'll 
forgive  me  for  associatin'  with  sich  a  pack  o'  lunatics 
for  that  trip,  I'll  never  be  caught  wi'  the  same  bait 
again." 

"What  did  they  do  to  you?"  asked  the  voice,  with  a 
tinge  of  amusement  in  it. 

"To  me?  They  did  naught  to  me  but  pester  me  wi' 
questions  of  insane  devisin'.  Scarce  a  man  o'  them 
could  tether  a  beast  or  lasso  one  that  was  astray.  They 
had  a  man  servant,  a  sort  o'  flunky,  to  wait  on  them 
and  he  just  sat  around  like  a  bump  on  a  log,  and  looked 
fearsomely  for  Injuns  an'  grizzlies.  They  would  pala 
ver  until  all  hours  in  the  night,  about  the  scientific 
causes  of  all  things  we  came  across.  Many  a  good 
laugh  I  might  have  had,  if  I  had  na  been  disgusted 
wi'  the  pretenses  o'  the  poor  bodies.  Why,  they  knew 
not  a  thing  but  the  learnin'  o'  books.  They  were 
from  the  East— down  East,  they  said;  that  is,  the 
Southeast,  I  suppose  they  meant  to  say;  and  their 
flunky  said  they  were  well-to-do  at  home,  and  very 
learned,  the  poor  fools!  Well,  I'll  weary  myself  wi' 
none  others  o'  the  same  ilk." 

"You're  getting  cranky,  Mac,  from  being  too  much 
alone;"  and  the  owner  of  the  voice  lounged  lazily  up 
from  the  seat  of  the  cabin  door,  and  stood  looking  in 
at  the  disgusted  Scotchman,  bending  ever  so  slightly 
a  dark,  well-shaped  head  that  was  taller  than  the 
cross-piece  above  the  door. 

"Am  I,  now?"  asked  the  old  man,  getting  up  stiffly 
from  filling  a  pan  of  milk  for  the  cat.  "Well,  then., 
I  have  a  neighbor  across  on  the  Maple  range  that  is 
subject  o'  late  to  the  same  complaint,  but  from  a  wide 


22  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

difference  o'  reason;"  and  he  nodded  his  head  signifi 
cantly  at  the  man  in  the  door,  adding:  "An'  there's 
a  subject  for  a  debate,  Jack  Genesee,  whether  loneliness 
is  worse  on  the  disposition  than  the  influence  o'  wrong 
company." 

Jack  Genesee  straightened  out  of  his  lounging  atti 
tude,  and  stepped  back  from  the  doorway  with  a  decision 
that  would  impress  a  man  as  meaning  business. 

"None  o'  that,  MacDougall,"  he  said  curtly,  drop 
ping  his  hand  with  a  hillman's  instinct  to  the  belt 
where  his  revolvers  rested.  "I  reckon  you  and  I  will 
be  better  friends  through  minding  our  own  business 
and  keeping  to  our  own  territory  in  future;"  and  whis 
tling  to  a  beautiful  brown  mare  that  was  browsing 
close  to  the  cabin,  he  turned  to  mount  her,  when  the 
old  man  crossed  the  floor  quickly  and  laid  a  sinewy; 
brown  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Bide  a  bit,  Genesee,"  he  said,  his  native  accent 
always  creeping  upward  in  any  emotion.  "Friends  are 
rare  and  scarce  in  this  Chinook  land.  You're  a  bit 
hasty  in  your  way,  and  mayhaps  I'm  a  bit  curious  in 
mine;  but  I'll  no  let  ye  leave  Davy  MacDougall's  like 
that  just  for  the  want  o'  sayin'  I'm  regretful  at 
havin'  said  more  than  I  should  o'  you  and  yours.  I 
canna  lose  a  friend  o'  four  years  for  a  trifle  like 
that." 

The  frankness  of  the  old  man's  words  made  the 
other  man  drop  the  bridle  and  turn  back  with  out 
stretched  hand. 

"That's  all  right,  Mac,"  he  said,  heartily;  "say  no 
more  about  it.  I  am  uglier  than  the  devil  to  get  along 
with  sometimes,  and  you're  about  straight  when  you 
say  I'm  a  crank;  only — well,  it's  nobody's  fault  but 
my  own." 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  23 

"No,  o*  course  not,"  said  MacDougall  in  a  concili 
atory  tone  as  he  went  back  to  his  dish-washing  at 
the  table — the  dishes  were  tin  pans  and  cups,  and 
the  dish-pan  was  an  iron  pot — "to  be  sure  not;  but 
the  half-breeds  are  pizen  in  a  man's  cabin,  an'  that 
Talapa,  wi'  the  name  that's  got  from  a  prairie  wolf 
an'  the  Injun  de'il,  is  well  called — a  full-blood  Injun 
is  easier  to  manage,  my  lad;  an'  then,"  he  added,  quiz 
zically,  "I'm  but  givin'  ye  the  lay  o'  the  land  where 
I've  fought  myself,  an'  mayhaps  got  wounded." 

The  "lad,"  who  was  about  thirty-five,  laughed  heartily 
at  this  characteristic  confession.  There  was  evidently 
some  decided  incongruity  between  the  old  Scotchman's 
statement  and  his  quaint  housewifery,  as  he  wrapped  a 
cloth  reduced  to  strings  around  a  fork  and  washed  out 
a  coffee-pot  with  the  improvised  mop.  Something 
there  was  in  it  that  this  man  Genesee  appreciated,  and 
his  continued  laughter  drew  the  beautiful  mare  again 
to  his  side,  slipping  her  velvety  nose  close  to  his  ear, 
and  muzzling  there  like  a  familiar  spirit  that  had  a 
right  to  share  her  master's  emotions. 

"All  right,  Mowitza,"  he  said  in  a  promising  tone; 
"we'll  hit  the  bush  by  and  by.  But  old  sulky  here 
is  slinging  poisoned  arrows  at  our  Kloocheman.  We 
can't  stand  that,  you  know.  We  don't  like  cooking 
our  own  grub,  do  we,  Mowitza?  Shake  your  head  and 
tell  him  'halo1 — that's  right.  Skookum  Kiutan!  Skoo- 
kitm,  Mowitza!" 

And  the  man  caressed  the  silky  brown  head,  and 
murmured  to  her  the  Indian  jargon  of  endearment  and 
praise,  and  the  mare  muzzled  closer  and  whinnied  an 
understanding  of  her  master.  MacDougall  put  away 
the  last  pan,  threw  a  few  knots  of  cedar  on  the  bit 
of  fire  in  the  stone  fire-place,  and  came  to  the  door 


24  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

just  as  the  sun,  falling  back  of  the  western  mountains, 
threw  a  flood  of  glory  about  the  old  cabin  of  the  moun 
taineer.  The  hill-grass  back  of  it  changed  from  uncer 
tain  green  to  spears  of  amber  as  the  soft  September 
winds  stole  through  it.  Away  below  in  the  valley, 
the  purple  gloom  of  dark  spruces  was  burying  itself 
in  night's  shadows.  Here  and  there  a  poison- vine 
flashed  back  defiance  under  its  crimson  banners,  and 
again  a  white-limbed  aspen  shone  like  a  shapely  ghost 
from  between  lichen-covered  bowlders.  But  slowly 
the  gloaming  crept  upward  until  the  shadow-line  fell 
at  the  cabin  door,  and  then  up,  up,  past  spruce  and 
cedar,  past  the  scrub  of  the  dwarf  growths,  past  the 
invisible  line  that  the  snakes  will  not  cross,  on  up 
to  the  splintered  crest,  where  the  snows  glimmer  in 
the  sunshine,  and  about  which  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
linger  and  kiss  and  fondle,  long  after  a  good-bye  has 
been  given  to  the  world  beneath. 

Such  was  but  one  of  the  many  recurring  vistas  of 
beauty  which  the  dwellers  of  the  northern  hills  are 
given  to  delight  in — if  they  care  to  open  their  eyes 
and  see  the  glorious  smile  with  which  the  earth  ever 
responds  to  the  kiss  of  God. 

MacDougall  had  seen  many  of  the  grand  panoramas 
which  day  and  night  on  Scot's  mountain  give  one, 
and  he  stood  in  the  door  unheeding  this  one.  His  keen 
eyes,  under  their  shaggy  brows,  were  directed  to  the 
younger  man's  bronzed  face. 

"There  ye  go!"  he  said,  half  peevishly;  "ye  jabber 
Chinook  to  that  Talapa  and  to  the  mare  until  it's  a 
wonder  ye  know  any  English  at  all;  an'  when  ye  be 
goin'  back  where  ye  belong,  it'll  be  fine,  queer  times 
ye'll  have  with  your  ways  of  speech." 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  25 

Genesee  only  laughed  shortly — an  Indian  laugh,  in 
which  there  is  no  melody. 

"I  don't  reckon  I  belong  anywhere,  by  this  time, 
except  in  this  Chinook  region;  consequently,"  he  added, 
looking  up  in  the  old  man's  interested  face,  "I'm  not 
likely  to  be  moving  anywhere,  if  that's  what  you're 
trying  to  find  out." 

MacDougall  made  a  half-dissenting  murmur  against 
trying  to  find  out  anything,  but  Genesee  cut  him  short 
without  ceremony. 

"The  fact  is,  Mac,"  he  continued;  "you  are  a  pre 
cious  old  galoot — a  regular  nervous  old  numbskull. 
You've  been  as  restless  as  a  newly-caught  grizzly  ever 
since  I  went  down  to  Cceur  d'Alene,  two  weeks  ago — • 
afraid  I  was  going  to  cut  loose  from  Tamahnous  Peak 
and  pack  my  traps  and  go  back  to  the  diggin's;  is  that 
it?  Don't  lie  about  it.  The  whole  trip  wasn't  worth 
a  good  lie,  and  all  it  panned  out  for  me  was  empty 
pockets." 

"Lord!  lad,  ye  canna  mean  to  say  ye  lost — 

"Every  damned  red,"  finished  Mr.  Genesee  com 
placently. 

"An'  how—" 

"Cards  and  mixed  drinks,"  he  said,  laconically. 
"Angels  in  the  wine-rooms,  and  a  slick  individual  at 
the  table  who  had  a  better  poker  hand  than  I  had. 
How's  that  as  a  trade  for  six  months'  work?  How 
does  it  pan  out  in  the  balance  with  half-breeds?" 

Evidently  it  staggered  MacDougall.  "It  is  no  much 
like  ye  to  dissipate,  Genesee,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 
"O'  course  a  man  likes  to  try  his  chance  on  the  chips 
once  in  a  way,  and  to  the  kelpies  o'  the  drinkin'  places 
one  must  leave  a  few  dollars,  but  the  mixin'  o'  drinks 
or  the  muddlin'  o'  the  brains  is  no  natural  to  ye;  it 


26  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

may  be  a  divarsion  after  the  hill  life,  but  there's  many 
a  kind  that's  healthier." 

"You're  a  confounded  old  humbug,"  said  Genesee 
coolly;  "you  preach  temperance  to  me,  and  get  drunk 
as  a  fiddler  all  alone  here  by  yourself— not  much  Scotch 
in  that  way  of  drinking,  I  can  tell  you.  Hello!  who's 
that?" 

MacDougall  leaned  forward  and  peered  down  the 
path  where  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet  were  heard  com 
ing  around  the  bend. 

"It's  that  man  o'  Hardy's  comin'  again  about  a  guide, 
I  have  na  doubt.  I'll  send  him  across  Seven-mile  Creek 
to  Tyee-Kamooks.  They  can  get  a  Siwash  guide  from 
him,  or  they  can  lose  themsel's  for  all  me,"  he  said, 
grumpily,  incited  thereto,  no  doubt,  by  Genesee's  criti 
cism  of  his  habits.  He  often  grumbled  that  his  friend 
from  the  Maple  range  was  mighty  "tetchy"  about  his 
own  faults,  and  mighty  cool  in  his  opinions  of  others. 

A  dark,  well-built  horse  came  at  an  easy,  swinging 
pace  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  spruce  boughs  and  over 
the  green  sward  toward  the  cabin;  his  rider,  a  fair, 
fine-looking  fellow,  in  a  ranchman's  buckskin  suit, 
touched  his  hat  ever  so  lightly  in  salute,  a  courtesy 
the  others  returned,  Genesee  adding  the  Chinook  word 
that  is  either  salutation  or  farewell,  "Klakowya, 
stranger,"  and  the  old  man  giving  the  more  English 
speech  of  "Good  evening;  won't  ye  light,  stranger?" 

"No;  obliged  to  you,  but  haven't  time.  I  suppose 
I'm  speaking  to  Mr.  MacDougall,"  and  he  took  his 
eyes  from  the  tall,  dark  form  of  Genesee  to  address  his 
speech  to  the  old  trapper. 

"Yes,  I'm  Davy  MacDougall,  an'  I  give  a  guess 
you're  from  the  new  sheep  ranch  that's  located  down 
Kootenai  Park;  you're  one  of  Hardy's  men." 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  27 

"No;  I'm  Hardy." 

"Are  ye,  now?"  queried  the  old  fellow  in  surprise. 
"I  expected  to  see  an  older  man — only  by  the  cause  of 
hearin'  you  were  married,  I  suppose.  Well,  now,  I'm 
right  glad  to  meet  wi'  a  new  neighbor — to  think  of  a 
ranch  but  a  bit  of  ten  miles  from  Scot's  Mountain, 
an'  a  white  family  on  it,  too!  Will  ye  no'  light  an'  have 
a  crack  at  a  pipe  an'  a  glass  ? " 

Hardy  himself  was  evidently  making  a  much  better 
impression  on  MacDougall  than  the  messenger  who  had 
come  to  the  cabin  in  the  morning. 

"No,  partner,  not  any  for  me,"  answered  the  young 
ranchman,  but  with  so  pleasant  a  negative  that  even 
a  Westerner  could  not  but  accept  graciously  such  a 
refusal.  "I  just  rode  up  from  camp  myself  to  see  you 
about  a  guide  for  a  small  party  over  into  the  west 
branch  of  the  Rockies.  Ivans,  who  came  to  see  you 
this  morning,  tells  me  that  you  are  disabled  your 
self—" 

"Yes;  that  is,  I  had  a  hug  of  a  grizzly  two  weeks 
back  that  left  the  ribs  o'  my  right  side  a  bit  sore; 
but—" 

The  old  man  hesitated;  evidently  his  reluctance  to 
act  as  guide  to  the  poor  fools  was  weakening.  This 
specimen  of  an  Eastern  man  was  not  at  all  the  style  of 
the  tourists  who  had  disgusted  him  so. 

"An'  so  I  told  your  man  I  thought  I  could  na  guide 
you,"  he  continued  in  a  debatable  way,  at  which  Hardy's 
blonde  mustache  twitched  suspiciously,  and  Genesee 
stooped  to  fasten  a  spur  that  had  not  needed  attention 
before;  for  the  fact  was  Mac  had  felt  "ower  cranky" 
that  morning,  and  the  messenger  had  been  a  stupid 
fellow  who  irritated  him  until  he  swore  by  all  the  car 
penter's  outfit  of  a  certain  workman  in  Nazareth  that. 


28  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

he  would  be  no  guide  for  "weemen  folk  and  tender- 
feet"  in  the  hills.  His  vehemence  had  caused  the 
refusal  of  Ivans  to  make  a  return  trip,  and  Hardy, 
remembering  Ivans'  account,  was  amused,  and  had  an 
idea  that  the  dark,  quiet  fellow  with  the  musical  voice 
was  amused  as  well. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  stranger;  "I  understood  you  could 
not  come,  but  I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  could  recommend 
an  Indian  guide.  I  had  Jim  Kale  engaged — he's  the 
only  white  man  I  know  in  this  region;  the  men  on  my 
place  are  all  from  south  of  the  Flathead  country.  He 
sent  me  word  yesterday  he  couldn't  come  for  a  week- 
confound  these  squaw  men!  He's  gone  to  hunt  caribou 
with  his  squaw's  people,  so  I  brought  my  party  so  far 
myself,  but  am  doubtful  of  the  trail  ahead.  'One  of 
the  ladies  is  rather  nervous  about  Indians,  and  that 
prevented  me  from  getting  a  guide  from  them  at  first; 
but  if  we  continue,  she  must  accustom  herself  to  Mon 
tana  surroundings." 

"That's  the  worst  o'  the  weemen  folk  when  it  comes 
to  the  hills,"  broke  in  MacDougall,  "they've  over  easy 
to  be  frightened  at  shadows;  a  roof  an'  .four  walls  is 
the  best  stoppin'  place  for  a'  o'  them." 

The  young  ranchman  laughed  easily. 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  known  many  of  our  Ken 
tucky  women,  Mr.  MacDougall;  they  are  not  hot-house 
plants,  by  any  means." 

Genesee  pushed  a  wide-brimmed  light  hat  back 
from  his  face  a  little,  and  for  the  first  time  joined  the 
conversation. 

"A  Kentucky  party,  did  you  say,  sir?"  he  queried, 
with  half -careless  interest. 

"Yes,"  said  Hardy,  turning  toward  him;  "relatives 
of  mine  from  back  East,  and  I  wanted  to  give  them  a 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  29 

taste  of  Montana  hill  life,  and  a  little  hunting.  But 
I  can't  go  any  farther  into  the  hills  alone,  especially 
as  there  are  three  ladies  in  the  party;  and  a  man  can't 
take  many  risks  when  he  has  them  to  consider." 

"That's  so,"  said  Genesee,  with  brief  sympathy; 
"big  gang?" 

"No — only  six  of  us.  My  sister  and  her  husband, 
and  a  cousin,  a  young  lady,  are'  the  strangers.  Then 
one  of  the  men  off  my  ranch  who  came  to  look  after 
the  pack-mules,  and  my  wife  and  self.  I  have  an  extra 
horse  for  a  guide  if  I  can  pick  one  up." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  could,"  said  Gen 
esee  reflectively;  "the  woods  are  full  of  them,  if  you 
want  Indian  guides,  and  if  you  don't — well,  it  doesn't 
seem  the  right  thing  to  let  visitors  leave  the  country 
disappointed,  especially  ladies,  and  I  reckon  I  might 
take  charge  of  your  outfit  for  a  week  or  so." 

MacDougall  nearly  dropped  his  pipe  in  his  surprise 
at  the  offer. 

"Well,  I'll  be —  '  he  began;  but  Genesee  turned  on 
him. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that?"  he  asked,  looking 
at  Mac  levelly,  with  a  glance  that  said:  "Keep  your 
mouth  shut."  "If  I  want  to  turn  guide  and  drop  dig 
ging  in  that  hill  back  there,  why  shouldn't  I?  It'll 
be  the  'divarsion'  you  were  suggesting  a  little  while 
back;  and  if  Mr.  Hardy  wants  a  guide,  give  me  a  recom 
mend,  can't  you?" 

"Do  you  know  the  country  northwest  of  here?"  asked 
Hardy  eagerly.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen  he  was  pleased 
at  his  "find."  "Do  you  live  here  in  the  Chinook  coun 
try?  You  may  be  a  neighbor  of  mine,  but  I  haven't 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  name." 

"That's  Mac's  fault,"  said  the  other  fellow  coolly; 


80  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"he's  master  of  ceremonies  in  these  diggin's,  and  has 
forgotten  his  business.  They  call  me  Genesee  Jack 
mostly,  and  I  know  the  Kootenai  hills  a  little." 

"Indeed,  then,  he  does  Mr.  Hardy,"  said  MacDou- 
gall,  finding  his  voice.  "Yell  find  no  Siwash  born 
on  the  hills  who  knows  them  better  than  does  Gen 
esee,  only  he's  been  bewitched  like,  by  picks  and  shovels 
a  gulch  in  the  Maple  range,  for  so  long  it's  a  bit 
strange  to  see  him  actin'  as  guide;  but  you're  a  lucky 
man  to  be  gettin'  him,  Mr.  Hardy,  I'll  tell  ye  that 
much." 

"I   am  willing  to   believe  it,"   said   Hardy   frankly. 
Could  you  start  at  once  with  us,  in  the  morning?" 
"I  reckon  so." 

"I  will  furnish  you  a  good  horse,"  began  the  ranch 
man;  but  Genesee  interrupted,  shaking  his  head  with 
a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  he  said  in  the  careless,  musical 
voice  that  yet  could  be  so  decided  in  its  softness-  and 
he  whistled  softly,  as  a  cricket  chirrups,  and  the  brown 
mare  came  to  him  with  long,  cat-like  movements  of 
the  slender  limbs,  dropping  her  head  to  his  shoulder 
"This  bit  of  horse-flesh  is  good  enough  for  me,"  he 
said,  slipping  a  long,  well-shaped  hand  over  the  silky 
cheek;  "an'  where  I  go,  Mowitza  goes—eh,  pet?" 

The  mare  whinnied  softly  as  acknowledgment  of  the 
address,  and  Hardy  noticed  with  admiration  the  fine 
points  in  her  sinewy,  supple  frame. 

"Mowitza,"  he  repeated.  "That  in  Chinook  means 
the  deer,  does  it  not  —  or  the  elk;  which  is  it?  I 
haven't  been  here  long  enough  to  pick  up  much  of  the 
jargon." 

"Well,  then,  ye'll  be  hearin'  enough  of  it  from  Gen 
esee,"  broke  in  MacDougall.  "He'll  be  forgettin' 


ON  SCOT'S  MOUNTAIN.  31 

his  native  language  in  it  if  he  lives  here  five  years 
longer;  an'— 

"There,  you've  said  enough,"  suggested  Genesee. 
"After  giving  a  fellow  a  recommend  for  solid  work, 
don't  spoil  it  by  an  account  of  his  fancy  accomplish 
ments.  You're  likely  to  overdo  it.  Yes,  Mowitza 
means  a  deer,  and  this  one  has  earned  her  name.  We'll 
both  be  down  at  your  camp  by  sun-up  to-morrow;  will 
that  do?" 

"It  certainly  will,"  answered  Hardy  in  a  tone  of 
satisfaction.  "And  the  folks  below  will  be  mighty 
glad  to  know  a  white  man  is  to  go  with  us.  Jim  Kale 
rather  made  them  doubtful  of  squaw  men,  and  my  sister 
is  timid  about  Indians  as  steady  company  through  the 
hills.  I  must  get  back  and  give  them  the  good  news. 
At  sun-up  to-morrow,  Mr.  Genesee?" 

"At  sun-up  to-morrow." 


32  TOLD  IN    THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AS    THE    SUN    ROSE. 

Do  you  know  the  region  of  the  Kootenai  that  lies 
in  the  northwest  corner  of  a  most  northwestern  state — 
where  the  "  bunch  -grass "  of  the  grazing  levels  bends 
even  now  under  a  chance  wild  stallion  and  his  harem 
of  silken-coated  mates;  where  fair  upland  "parks'' 
spread  back  from  the  cool  rush  of  the  rivers ;  where  the 
glittering  peaks  of  the  mountains  glow  at  the  rise  and 
fall  of  night  like  the  lances  of  a  guard  invincible,  that 
lift  their  grand  silence  as  a  barrier  against  the  puny 
strife  of  the  outside  world  ? 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  absorb  the  elastic  breath 
of  the  mountains  at  the  awakening  of  day?  To  stand 
far  above  the  levels  and  watch  the  faint  amethystine 
peaks  catch  one  by  one  their  cap  of  gold  flung  to  them 
from  an  invisible  sun?  To  feel  the  blood  thrill  with 
the  fever  of  an  infinite  possession  as  the  eyes  look  out 
alone  over  a  seemingly  creatureless  scene  of  vastness, 
of  indefiniteness  of  all  vague  promise,  in  the  growing 
light  of  day?  To  feel  the  cool  crispness  of  the  heights, 
tempered  by  the  soft  "Chinook"  winds?  To  feel  the 
fresh  wet  dews  of  the  morning  on  your  hands  and  on 
your  face,  and  to  know  them  in  a  dim  way  odorous — 
odorous  with  the  virginity  of  the  hills — of  the  day  dawn, 
with  all  the  sweet  things  of  form  or  feeling  that  the 
new  day  brings  into  new  life? 

A  girl  on  Scot's  Mountain  seemed  to  breathe  in  all 
that  intoxication  of  the  hill  country,  as  she  stood  on 


AS  THE  SUN  ROSE.  33 

a  little  level,  far  above  the  smoke  of  the  camp-fire,  and 
watched  the  glowing,  growing  lights  on  the  far  peaks. 
A  long  time  she  had  stood  there,  her  riding-dress  gath 
ered  up  above  the  damp  grass,  her  cap  in  her  hand,  and 
her  brown  hair  tossing  in  a  bath  of  the  winds.  Twice 
a  shrill  whistle  had  called  her  to  the  camp  hidden  by  the 
spruce  boughs,  but  she  had  only  glanced  down  toward 
the  valley,  shook  her  head  mutinously,  and  returned 
to  the  study  of  her  panorama;  for  it  seemed  so  entirely 
her  own — displaying  its  beauties  for  her  sole  surprisal 
— that  it  seemed  discourteous  to  ignore  it  or  descend  to 
lower  levels  during  that  changing  carnival  of  color.  So 
she  just  nodded  a  negative  to  her  unseen  whistler  below, 
determined  not  to  leave,  even  at  the  risk  of  getting  the 
leavings  of  the  breakfast — not  a  small  item  to  a  young 
woman  with  a  healthy,  twenty-year-old  appetite. 

Something  at  last  distracted  that  wrapt  attention. 
What  was  it?  She  heard  no  sound,  had  noticed  no 
movement  but  the  stir  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves  and 
the  grasses,  yet  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a 
twitchy  movement  of  being  disturbed  and  not  know 
ing  by  what.  Then  she  gathered  her  skirts  a  little 
closer  in  her  hand  and  took  a  step  or  so  backward  in 
an  uncertain  way,  and  a  moment  later  clapped  the  cap 
on  her  tumbled  hair,  and  turned  around,  looking  squarely 
into  the  face  of  a  stranger  not  a  dozen  steps  from  her, 
who  was  watching  her  with  rather  sombre,  curious 
eyes.  Their  steady  gaze  accounted  for  the  mesmeric 
disturbance,  but  her  quick  turn  gave  her  revenge,  for 
he  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  dark  hair  as  she  caught 
him  watching  her  like  that,  and  he  did  not  speak  just 
at  first.  He  lifted  his  wide-brimmed  hat,  evidently 
with  the  intention  of  greeting  her,  but  his  tongue  was 


34  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

a  little  unruly,  and  he  only  looked  at  her,  and  she  at 
him. 

They  stood  so  in  reality  only  a  flash  of  seconds, 
though  it  seemed  a  continuous  stare  of  minutes  to 
both;  then  the  humorous  side  of  the  situation  appealed 
to  the  girl,  and  her  lips  twitched  ever  so  slightly  as 
she  recovered  her  speech  first  and  said  demurely: 

"Good  morning,   sir." 

"How  are  you?"  he  returned;  and  having  regained 
the  use  of  his  tongue,  he  added,  in  an  easier  way:  "You'll 
excuse  me,  lady,  if  I  sort  of  scared  you? " 

''Oh,  no,  I  was  not  at  all  startled,"  she  answered 
hastily,  "only  a  little  surprised." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "so  was  I.  That's  why  I  stood 
there  a-staring  at  you — couldn't  just  make  out  if  you 
were  real  or  a  ghost,  though  I  never  before  saw  even 
the  ghost  of  a  white  woman  in  this  region." 

"And  you  were  watching  to  see  if  I  would  vanish 
into  thin  air  like  a  Macbeth  witch,  were  you?"  she 
asked  quizzically. 

He  might  be  on  his  native  heath  and  she  an  inter 
loper,  but  she  was  much  the  most  at  her  ease — 
evidently  a  young  lady  of  adaptability  and  consider 
able  self-possession.  His  eyes  had  grown  wavering 
and  uncertain  in  their  glances,  and  that  flush  made 
him  still  look  awkward,  and  she  wondered  if  Mac- 
beth's  witches  were  not  unheard-of  individuals  to  him, 
and  she  noticed  with  those  direct,  comprehensive  eyes 
that  a  suit  of  buckskin  can  be  wonderfully  becoming 
to  tall,  lazy-looking  men,  and  that  wide,  light  som 
breros  have  quite  an  artistic  effect  as  a  frame  for  dark 
hair  and  eyes;  and  through  that  decision  she  heard 
him  say : 

"No.     I  wasn't  watching  you  for  anything  special, 


AS  THE  SUN  ROSE.  35 

only  if  you  were  a  real  woman,  I  reckoned  you  were 
prospecting  around  looking  for  the  trail,  and — and  so 
I  just  waited  to  see,  knowing  you  were  a  stranger." 

' '  And  is  that  all  you  know  about  me  ? ' '  she  asked  mis 
chievously.  "  I  know  much  more  than  that  about  you." 

' '  How  much  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  know  you're  just  coming  from  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall's,  and  you  are  going  to  Hardy's  camp  to  act 
as  commander-in-chief  of  the  eastern  tramps  in  it, 
and  your  name  is  Mr.  Jack  Genesee — and — and — that 
is  all." 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it  is,"  he  agreed,  looking  at  her  in 
astonishment.  "It's  a  good  deal,  considering  you 
never  saw  me  before,  and  I  don't  know— 

"And  you  don't  know  who  I  am,"  she  rejoined  easily. 
"Well,  I  can  tell  you  that,  too.  I'm  a  wanderer  from 
Kentucky,  prospecting,  as  you  would  call  it,  for  some 
thing  new  in  this  Kootenai  country  of  yours,  and  my 
name  is  Rachel  Hardy." 

"That's  a  good,  square  statement,"  he  smiled,  put  at 
his  ease  by  the  girl's  frankness.  "So  you're  one  of  the 
party  I'm  to  look  after  on  this  cultus  corrie?" 

"Yes,  I'm  one  of  them — Cousin  Hardy  says  the  most 
troublesome  of  the  lot,  because  I  always  want  to  be 
doing  just  the  things  I've  no  business  to";  then  she 
looked  at  him  and  laughed  a  little.  "I  tell  you  this 
at  once,"  she  added,  "so  you  will  know  what  a  task 
you  have  undertaken,  and  if  you're  timid,  you  might 
back  out  before  it's  too  late— are  you  timid?" 

"Do  I  look  it?" 

"N — no";  but  she  didn't  give  him  the  scrutiny  she 
had  at  first — -only  a  swift  glance  and  a  little  hurry  to 
her  next  question:  "What  was  that  queer  term  yoii 
when  speaking  of  our  trip— cul — 


36  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Oh,  cultus  cornel  That's  Chinook  for  pleasure 
ride." 

"  Is  it  ?  What  queer  words  they  have.  Cousin  Harry 
was  telling  me  it  was  a  mongrel  language,  made  up 
of  Indian,  French,  English,  and  any  stray  words  from 
other  tongues  that  were  adjustable  to  it.  Is  it  hard 
to  learn?" 

"I  think  not — I  learned  it." 

"What  becoming  modesty  in  that  statement!"  she 
laughed  quizzically.  "Come,  Mr.  Jack  Genesee,  sup 
pose  we  begin  our  cultus  corrie  by  eating  breakfast 
together;  they've  been  calling  me  for  the  past  half- 
hour." 

He  whistled  for  Mowitza,  and  Miss  Rachel  Hardy 
recognized  at  once  the  excellence  of  this  silken-coated 
favorite. 

"Mowitza;  what  a  musical  name!"  she  remarked  as 
she  followed  the  new  guide  to  the  trail  leading  down 
the  mountain.  "It  sounds  Russian — is  it?" 

"No;  another  Chinook  word — look  out  there;  these 
stones  are  bad  ones  to  balance  on,  they're  too  round, 
and  that  gully  is  too  deep  below  to  make  it  safe." 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  announced  in  answer  to  the 
warning  as  she  amused  herself  by  hopping  bird-like 
from  one  round,  insecure  bowlder  to  another,  and  send 
ing  several  bounding  and  crashing  into  the  gully  that 
cut  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  mountain.  "I  can  man 
age  to  keep  my  feet  on  your  hills,  even  if  I  can't  speak 
their  language.  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  don't  care 
to  add  Professor  of  Languages  to  your  other  titles,  do 
you,  Mr.  Jack  Genesee?" 

"I  reckon  I'm  in  the  dark  now,  Miss,  sort  of  blind 
fold — can't  catch  onto  what  you  mean." 

"Oh,  I  was  just  thinking  I  might  take  up  the  study 


AS  THE  SUN  ROSE.  37 

of  Chinook  while  out  here,  and  go  back  home  over 
whelming  the  natives  by  my  novel  accomplishment.  " 
And  she  laughed  so  merrily  at  the  idea,  and  looked  so 
quizzically  at  Genesee  Jack's  dark,  serious  face,  that 
he  smiled  in  sympathy. 

They  had  only  covered  half  the  trail  leading  down 
to  the  camp,  but  already,  through  the  slightly  strange 
and  altogether  unconventional  meeting,  she  found  her 
self  making  remarks  to  him  with  the  freedom  of  a 
long-known  chum,  and  rather  enjoying  the  curious,  puz 
zled  look  with  which  he  regarded  her  when  she  was 
quick  enough  to  catch  him  looking  at  her  at  all. 

"Stop  a  moment,"  she  said,  just  as  the  trail  plunged 
from  the  open  face  of  the  mountain  into  the  shadow 
of  spruce  and  cedar.  "You  see  this  every  morning,  I 
suppose,  but  it  is  a  grand  treat  to  me.  See  how  the 
light  has  crept  clear  down  to  the  level  land  now.  I 
came  up  here  long  before  there  was  a  sign  of  the  sun, 
for  I  knew  the  picture  would  be  worth  it.  Isn't  it 
beautiful  ? ' ' 

Her  eyes,  alight  with  youth  and  enthusiasm,  were 
turned  for  a  last  look  at  the  sun-kissed  country  below, 
to  which  she  directed  his  attention  with  one  bare,  out 
stretched  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  he  agreed;  but  his  eyes  were  not  on  the 
valley  of  the  Kootenai,  but  on  the  girl's  face. 


38  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT    IS    A    SQUAW    MAN? 

"Rache,  I  want  you  to  stop  it."  The  voice  had  an 
insinuating  tone,  as  if  it  would  express  "will  you  stop 
it?" 

The  speaker  was  a  chubby,  matronly  figure,  enthroned 
on  a  hassock  of  spruce  boughs,  while  the  girl  stretched 
beside  her  was  drawing  the  fragrant  spikes  of  green, 
bit  by  bit,  over  closed  eyes  and  smiling;  only  the  mouth 
and  chin  could  be  seen  under  the  green  veil,  but  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  were  widening  ever  so  little. 
Smiles  should  engender  content;  they  are  supposed  to 
be  a  voucher  of  sweet  thoughts,  but  at  times  they  have 
a  tendency  to  bring  out  all  that  is  irritable  in  human 
nature,  and  the  chubby  little  woman  noted  that  growing 
smile  with  rising  impatience. 

"I  am  not  jesting,"  she  continued,  as  if  there  might 
be  a  doubt  on  that  question;  "and  I  wish  you 'would 
stop  it." 

"You  haven't  given  it  a  name  yet.  Say,  Clara, 
that  sounds  like  an  invitation  to  drink,  doesn't  it? — 
a  western  invitation." 

But  her  fault-finder  was  not  going  to  let  her  escape 
the  subject  like  that. 

"I  am  not  sure  it  has  a  name,"  she  said  curtly.  "No 
one  seems  to  know  whether  it  is  Genesee  Jack  or  Jack 
Genesee,  or  whether  both  are  not  aliases — in  fact,  the 
most  equivocal  sort  of  companion  for  a  young  girl  over 
these  hills." 


WHAT  IS  A  SQUAW  MAN?  39 

"What  a  tempest  you  raise  about  nothing,  Clara," 
said  the  girl  good-humoredly ;  "one  would  think  that 
I  was  in  hourly  danger  of  being  kidnaped  by  Mr.  Gen- 
esee  Jack — the  name  is  picturesque  in  sound,  and  suits 
him,  don't  you  think  so?  But  I  am  sure  the  poor  man 
is  quite  harmless,  and  stands  much  more  in  awe  of  me 
than  I  do  of  him." 

"I  believe  you,"  assented  her  cousin  tartly.  "I  never 
knew  you  to  stand  in  awe  of  anything  masculine,  from 
your  babyhood.  You  are  a  born  flirt,  for  all  your 
straightforward,  independent  ways.  Oh,  I  know  you." 

"So  I  hear  you  say,"  answered  Miss  Hardy,  peering 
through  the  screen  of  cedar  sprays,  her  eyes  shining  a 
little  wickedly  from  their  shadows.  "You  have  a  hard 
time  of  it  with  me,  haven't  you,  dear?  By  the  way, 
Clara,  who  prompted  you  to  this  lecture — Hen?" 

"No,  Hen  did  not;  neither  he  nor  Alec  seem  to  have 
eyes  or  ears  for  anything  but  deer  and  caribou;  they 
are  constantly  airing  their  new-found  knowledge  of  the 
country.  I  had  to  beg  Alec  to  come  to  sleep  last  night, 
or  I  believe  they  would  have  gossiped  until  morning. 
The  one  redeeming  point  in  your  Genesee  Jack  is  that 
he  doesn't  talk." 

"He  isn't  my  Genesee  Jack,"  returned  the  girl;  "but 
he  does  talk,  and  talk  well,  I  think.  You  do  not  know 
him,  that  is  all,  and  you  never  will,  with  those  starchy 
manners  of  yours.  Not  talk! — why,  he  has  taught  me 
a  lot  of  Chinook,  and  told  me  all  about  a  miner's  life 
and  a  hunter's.  Not  talk! — I've  only  known  him  a 
little  over  a  week,  and  he  has  told  me  his  life  for  ten 
years  back." 

"Yes,  with  no  little  encouragement  from  you,  I'll 
wager  " 

''Well,  my  bump  of  curiosity  was   enlarged  some- 


40  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

what  as  to  his  life,"  acknowledged  the  girl.  "You  see 
he  has  such  an  unusual  personality,  unusually  interest 
ing,  I  mean.  I  never  knew  any  man  like  him  in  the  East. 
Why,  he  only  needs  a  helmet  instead  of  the  sombrero, 
and  armor  instead  of  the  hunting  suit,  and  he  would 
make  an  ideal  Launcelot." 

"Good  gracious,  Rache!  do  stop  raving  over  the 
man,  or  I  shall  certainly  have  Hen  discharge  him  and 
take  you  back  to  civilization  at  once." 

"But  perhaps  I  won't  go  back — what  then;  and  per 
haps  Hen  could  not  be  able  to  see  your  reason  for 
getting  rid  of  a  good  guide,"  said  the  girl  coolly,  know 
ing  she  had  the  upper  hand  of  the  controversy;  "and 
as  to  the  raving,  you  know  I  never  said  a  word  about 
him  until  you  began  to  find  fault  with  everything, 
from  the  cut  of  his  clothes  to  the  name  he  gives,  and 
then — well,  a  fellow  must  stand  up  for  his  friends,  you 
know." 

"Of  course  a  fellow  must,"  agreed  someone  back  of 
them,  and  the  young  ranchman  from  the  East  came 
down  under  the  branches  from  the  camp-fire  just 
kindled;  "that  is  a  manly  decision,  Rache,  and  does 
you  credit.  But  what's  the  argument?" 

"Oh,  Clara  thinks  I  am  taking  root  too  quickly  in 
the  soil  of  loose  customs  out  here,"  explained  the  girl, 
covering  the  question,  yet  telling  nothing. 

"She  doesn't  approve  of  our  savage  mode  of  life, 
does  she?"  he  queried,  sympathetically;  "and  she 
hasn't  seen  but  a  suggestion  of  its  horrors  yet.  Too 
bad  Jim  Kale  did  not  come;  she  could  have  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  specimen  that  would  no  doubt  be  of 
interest  to  her — a  squaw  man  with  all  his  native  charms 
intact." 

"Hen,"  said  the  girl,  rising  on  her  elbow,  "I  wish 


'/  give  you  fair  warning,  you  might  as  well  tell  me  all  I  want  to 
know."     Page  41. 


WHAT  IS  A  SQUAW  MAN?  41 

you  would  tell  me  just  what  you  mean  by  a  'squaw 
man';  is  it  a  man  who  buys  squaws,  or  sells  them,  or 
eats  them,  or— well,  what  does  he  do? " 

"He  marries  them — sometimes,"  was  the  laconic 
reply,  as  if  willing  to  drop  the  question.  But  Miss 
Rache,  when  interested,  was  not  to  be  thrust  aside  until 
satisfied. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  persisted;  "is  he  a  sort  of  Mor 
mon,  then — an  Indian  Mormon?  And  how  many  do 
they  marry?" 

"I  never  knew  them  to  marry  more  than  one,"  haz 
arded  Mr.  Hardy.  "But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  know 
very  little  about  their  customs;  I  understand  they  are 
generally  a  worthless  class  of  men,  and  the  term  'squaw 
man'  is  a  stigma,  in  a  way — the  most  of  them  are  rather 
ashamed  of  it,  I  believe." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  began  Rache. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  do,"  broke  in  her  cousin 
Hardy  with  a  relative's  freedom,  "and  it  is  not  neces 
sary  that  you  should;  just  confine  your  curiosity  to 
other  phases  of  Missoula  County  that  are  open  for 
inspection,  and  drop  the  squaw  men." 

"I  haven't  picked  up  any  of  them  yet,"  returned  the 
girl,  rising  to  her  feet,  "but  I  will  the  first  chance  I  get; 
and  I  give  you  fair  warning,  you  might  as  well  tell  me 
all  I  want  to  know,  for  I  will  find  out." 

"I'll  wager  she  will,"  sighed  Clara,  as  the  girl  walked 
away  to  where  their  traps  and  sachels  were  stacked 
under  a  birch  tree,  and  while  she  turned  things  topsy 
turvy  looking  for  something,  she  nodded  her"  head 
sagaciously  over  her  shoulder  at  the  two  left  behind; 
'"to  be  sure  she  will — she  is  one  of  the  girls  who  are 
always  stumbling  on  just  the  sort  of  knowledge  that 
should  be  kept  from  them;  and  this  question  of  your 


42  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

horrid  social  system  out  here— well,  she  will  know  all 
about  it  if  she  has  to  interview  Ivans  or  your  guide 
to  find  out;  and  I  suppose  it  is  an  altogether  objection 
able  topic?" 

The  intonation  of  the  last  words  showed  quite  as  much 
curiosity  as  the  girl  had  declared,  only  it  was  more  care 
fully  veiled. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  as  it  is,"  returned  her  brother; 
"except  under — well— circumstances.  But,  some  way, 
a  white  man  is  mightily  ashamed  to  have  it  known  that 
he  has  a  squaw  wife.  Ivans  told  me  that  many  of  them 
would  as  soon  be  shot  as  to  have  it  known  back  East 
where  they  came  from." 

"Yes,"  remarked  a  gentleman  who  joined  them  dur 
ing  this  speech,  and  whose  brand-new  hunting  suit 
bespoke  the  " got-up-regardless "  tourist;  "it  is  strange, 
don't  you  think  so?  Why,  back  East  we  would  hear 
of  such  a  marriage  and  think  it  most  romantic;  but  out 
here — well,  it  seems  hard  to  convince  a  Westerner  that 
there  is  any  romance  about  an  Indian." 

"And  I  don't  wonder,  Alec,  do  you?"  asked  Mrs. 
Houghton,  turning  to  her  husband  as  if  sure  of  sym 
pathy  from  him;  "all  the  squaws  we  have  seen  are 
horribly  slouchy,  dirty  creatures.  I  have  yet  to  see 
the  Indian  maiden  of  romance." 

"In  their  original  state  they  may  have  possessed  all 
the  picturesque  dignities  and  chivalrous  character 
ascribed  to  them,"  answered  Mr.  Houghton,  doubtfully; 
"but  if  so,  their  contact  with  the  white  race  has  caused 
a  vast  degeneration." 

"Which  it  undoubtedly  has,"  returned  Hardy,  decid 
edly.  "Mixing  of  races  always  has  that  effect,  and 
in  the  Indian  country  it  takes  a  most  decided  turn. 
The  vSiwash  or  Indian  men  of  this  territory  may  be 


WHAT  IS  A  SQUAW  MAN?  43 

a  thieving,  whisky-drinking  lot,  but  the  chances  are 
that  nine-tenths  of  the  white  men  who  marry  among 
them  become  more  worthless  and  degraded  than  the 
Indian." 

"There  are,  I  suppose,  exceptions,"  remarked  Hough- 
ton. 

"Well,  there  may  be,"  answered  Hardy,  "but  they 
are  not  taken  into  consideration,  and  that  is  why  a  man 
dislikes  to  be  classed  among  them.  There  is  something 
of  the  same  feeling  about  it  that  there  is  back  home 
about  a  white  man  marrying  a  negro." 

"Then  why  do  they  do  it,  if  they  are  ashamed  of  it?" 
queried  Mrs.  Houghton  with  logical  directness. 

"Well,  I  suppose  because  there  are  no  white  women 
here  for  them  to  marry,"  answered  her  brother,  "and 
Indians  or  half-breeds  are  always  to  be  found." 

"  If  ministers  are  not,"  added  Houghton. 

"Exactly!" 

"Oh,  good  gracious!"  ejaculated  the  little  matron 
in  a  tone  of  disgust;  "no  wonder  they  are  ashamed — 
even  the  would-be  honest  ones  are  likely  to  incur  sus 
picion,  because,  as  you  say,  the  exceptions  are  too 
few  for  consideration.  A  truly  delightful  spot  you 
have  chosen;  the  moral  atmosphere  would  be  a  good 
field  for  a  missionary,  I  should  say — yet  you  would 
come  here." 

"Yes,  and  I  am  going  to  stay,  too,"  said  Hardy,  in 
answer  to  this  sisterly  tirade.  "We  see  or  know  but 
little  of  those  poor  devils  or  their  useless  lives —  only 
we  know  by  hearing  that  such  a  state  of  things  exists. 
But  as  for  quitting  the  country  because  of  that — well, 
no,  I  could  not  be  bought  back  to  the  East  after  know 
ing  this  glorious  climate.  Why,  Tillie  and  I  have 
picked  out  a  tree  to  be  buried  under — a  magnificent 


46  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Because  I  was  thinking,"  continued  her  tormentor 
— "I  was  thinking  that  if  the  exile,  as  Clara  calls  it, 
would  be  too  severe  on  you,  I  might,  if  it  was  for  your 
own  good — I  might  send  you  back  with  the  rest  to 
Kentucky." 

Then  there  was  a  raising  of  the  head  quick  enough 
and  a  tempestuous  flight  across  the  space  that  separated 
them,  and  a  flood  of  remonstrances  that  ended  in  happy 
laughter,  a  close  clasp  of  arms,  and — yes,  in  spite  of 
the  girl  who  was  standing  not  very  far  away — a  kiss; 
and  Hardy  circled  his  wife's  shoulders  with  his  long 
arms,  and,  with  a  glance  of  laughing  defiance  at  his 
cousin,  drew  her  closer  and  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 
Houghtons. 

The  girl  had  deliberately  stood  watching  that  little 
scene  with  a  curious  smile  in  her  eyes,  a  semi-cynical 
gaze  at  the  lingering  fondness  of  voice  and  touch. 
There  was  no  envy  in  her  face,  only  a  sort  of  good- 
natured  disbelief.  Her  cousin  Clara  always  averred 
that  Rachel  was  too  masculine  in  spirit  to  ever  under 
stand  the  little  tendernesses  that  burnish  other  women's 
lives. 


BANKED  FIRES.  47 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BANKED    FIRES. 

She  did  not  look  masculine,  however,  as  she  stood 
there,  slender,  and  brown  from  the  tan  of  the  winds; 
the  unruly,  fluffy  hair  clustering  around  a  face  and 
caressing  a  neck  that  was  essentially  womanly  in  every 
curve;  only,  slight  as  the  form  seemed,  one  could  find 
strong  points  in  the  depth  of  chest  and  solid  look  of  the 
shoulders ;  a  veteran  of  the  roads  would  say  those  same 
points  in  a  bit  of  horse-flesh  would  denote  capacity  for 
endurance,  and,  added  to  the  strong-looking  hand  and 
the  mockery  latent  in  the  level  eyes,  they  completed  a 
personality  that  she  had  all  her  life  heard  called  queer. 
And  with  a  smile  that  reflected  that  term,  she 
watched  those  two  married  lovers  stroll  arm  in 
arm  to  where  the  freshly-killed  deer  lay.  Glanc 
ing  at  the  group,  she  missed  the  face  of  their 
guide,  a  face  she  had  seen  much  of  since  that  sunrise 
in  the  Kootenai.  Across  the  sward  a  little  way  the 
horses  were  picketed,  and  Mowitza's  graceful  head 
was  bent  in  search  for  the  most  luscious  clusters  of  the 
bunch-grass;  but  Mowitza's  master  was  not  to  be  seen. 
She  had  heard  him  speak,  the  night  before,  of  signs 
of  grizzlies  around  the  shank  of  the  mountain,  and 
wondered  if  he  had  started  on  a  lone  hunt  for  them. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  half-resentful  feeling  that  he 
had  not  given  her  a  chance  of  going  along,  when  he 
knew  she  wanted  to  see  everything  possible  in  this  out- 
of-door  life  in  the  hills. 


48  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

So,  in  some  ill-humor,  she  walked  aimlessly  across 
the  grass  where  Clara's  lecture  on  the  conventionali 
ties  had  been  delivered;  and  pushing  ahead  under  the 
close-knit  boughs,  she  was  walking  away  from  the 
rest,  led  by  that  spirit  of  exploration  that  comes  natur 
ally  to  one  in  a  wilderness,  and  parting  a  wide-spread 
ing  clump  of  laurel,  was  about  to  wedge  her  way  through 
it,  when  directly  on  the  other  side  of  that  green  wall 
she  saw  Genesee,  whom  she  had  supposed  was  alone 
after  a  grizzly.  Was  he  asleep?  He  was  lying  face 
downward  under  the  woven  green  roof  that  makes 
twilight  in  the  cedars.  The  girl  stopped,  about 
to  retrace  her  steps  quietly,  when  a  sudden  thought 
made  her  look  at  him  more  closely,  with  a  devout 
prayer  in  her  heart  that  he  was  asleep,  and  asleep 
soundly;  for  her  quick  eyes  had  measured  the  short 
distance  between  that  resting-place  and  the  scene 
of  the  conversation  of  a  few  minutes  ago.  She  tried 
wildly  to  remember  what  Clara  had  said  about  him, 
and,  most  of  all,  what  answers  Clara  had  received. 
She  had  no  doubt  said  things  altogether  idiotic,  just 
from  a  spirit  of  controversy,  and  here  the  man  had 
been  within  a  few  feet  of  them  all  the  time!  She  felt 
like  saying  something  desperately,  -expressively  mascu 
line;  but  instead  of  easing  her  feelings  in  that  manner, 
she  was  forced  to  complete  silence  and  a  stealthy 
retreat. 

Was  he  asleep,  or  only  resting?  The  uncertainty  was 
aggravating.  And  a  veritable  Psyche,  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  taking  a  last,  sharp  look.  She 
leaned  forward  ever  so  little  to  ascertain,  and  thus 
lost  her  chance  of  retreating  unseen;  for  among  the 
low-hanging  branches  was  one  on  which  there  were  no 
needles  of  green — a  bare,  straggling  limb  with  twigs 


BANKED  FIRES.  49 

like  the  fingers  of  black  skeletons.  In  bending  for 
ward,  she  felt  one  of  them  fasten  itself  in  her  hair; 
tugging  blindly  and  wildly,  at  last  she  loosened  their 
impish  clutches,  and  left  as  trophy  to  the  tree  some 
erratic,  light -brown  hair  and — she  gave  up  in  despair  as 
she  saw  it — her  cap,  that  swung  backward  and  forward, 
just  out  of  reach. 

If  it  only  staid  there  for  the  present,  she  would 
not  care  so  much;  but  it  was  so  tantalizingly  inse 
cure,  hanging  by  a  mere  thread,  and  almost  directly 
above  the  man.  Fascinated  by  the  uncertainty,  she 
stood  still.  Would  it  stay  where  it  was?  Would  it 
fall? 

The  silent  query  was  soon  answered — it  fell,  dropped 
lightly  down  on  the  man's  shoulder,  and  he,  raising 
his  head  from  the  folded  arms,  showed  a  face  from 
which  the  girl  took  a  step  back  in  astonishment.  He 
had  not  been  asleep,  then;  but  to  the  girl's  eyes  he 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  been  either  fighting  or 
weeping.  She  had  never  seen  a  face  so  changed,  tell 
ing  so  surely  of  some  war  of  the  emotions.  He  lay  in 
the  shadow,  one  hand  involuntarily  lifting  itself  as  a 
shade  for  his  eyes  while  he  looked  up  at  her. 

Well ! ' '  The  tone  was  gruff,  almost  hoarse ;  it  was  as 
unlike  him  as  his  face  at  that  moment,  and  Rachel 
Hardy  wondered,  blankly,  if  he  was  drunk — it  was  about 
the  only  reasonable  explanation  she  could  give  herself. 
But  even  with  that  she  could  not  be  satisfied;  there 
was  too  much  quick  anger  at  the  thought — not  anger 
alone,  but  a  decided  feeling  of  disappointment  in  the 
man.  To  be  sure,  she  had  been  influenced  by  no  one  to 
have  faith  in  him;  still — someway— 

"Are  you— are  you  ill,  Mr.  Genesee?"  she  asked  at 
last. 
4 


50  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

What  a  bear  the  man  was!  she  thought;  what  need 
was  there  to  answer  a  civil  question  in  that  tone.  It 
made  her  just  antagonistic  enough  not  to  care  so 
much  if  his  feelings  had  been  hurt  by  Clara's  remarks, 
and  she  asked  bluntly: 

"Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"Some  time." 

"Awake?" 

"Well,  yes,"  and  he  made  a  queer  sound  in  his 
throat,  half  grunt,  half  laugh;  "I  reckon  I — was— 
awake." 

The  slow,  half -bitter  words  impelled  her  to  con 
tinue  : 

"Then  you — you  heard  the — the  conversation  over 
there?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  thought  his  eyes  were 
pretty  steady  for  a  drunken  man's. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  repeated,  "I  reckon—I— heard  it." 

All  her  temper  blazed  up  at  the  deliberate  confes 
sion.  If  he  had  seemed  embarrassed  or  wounded,  she 
would  have  felt  sorry;  but  this  stoicism  angered  her, 
as  the  idea  of  drunkenness  had  done — perhaps  because 
each  set  herself  and  her  feelings  aside — I  do  not  know, 
but  that  may  have  been  the  reason;  she  was  a  woman. 

"And  you  deliberately  lay  there  and  listened,"  she 
burst  out  wrathfully,  "and  let  us  say  all  sorts  of  things, 
no  doubt,  when  it  was  your  place  as  a  gentleman  to 
let  us  know  you  were  here?  I — I  would  not  have 
taken  you  for  an  eavesdropper,  Mr.  Jack  Genesee!" 
And  with  this  tirade  she  turned  to  make  her"  way  back 
through  the  laurel. 

"Here!" 

She  obeyed  the  command  in  his  voice,  thinking,  as 


BANKED  FIRES.  51 

she  did  so,  how  quick  the  man  was  to  get  on  his  feet. 
In  a  stride  he  was  beside  her,  his  hand  outstretched 
to  stop  her;  but  it  was  not  necessary,  his  tone  had 
done  that,  and  he  thrust  both  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  his  hunting  coat. 

"Stop  just  where  you  are  for  a  minute,  Miss,"  he 
said,  looking  down  at  her;  "and  don't  be  so  infernally 
quick  about  making  a  judge  and  jury  of  yourself — and 
you  look  just  now  as  if  you'd  like  to  be  sheriff,  too. 
I  make  no  pretense  of  being  a  gentleman  of  culture, 
so  you  can  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  telling  me  the 
duty  of  one.  What  little  polish  I  ever  had  has  been 
knocked  off  in  ten  years  of  hill  life  out  here.  I'm 
not  used  to  talking  to  ladies,  and  my  ways  may  seem 
mighty  rough  to  you;  but  I  want  you  to  know  I  wasn't 
listening — I  would  have  got  away  if  I  could,  but  I— 
was  paralyzed." 

"What?"     Her  tone  was  coldly  unbelieving. 

His  manner  was  collected  enough  now.  He  was 
talking  soberly,  if  rather  brusquely;  but — that  strange 
look  in  his  face  at  first?  and  the  eyes  that  burned  as 
if  for  the  lack  of  tears? — those  were  things  not  yet 
understood. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "that's  what  I  was,  I  reckon. 
I  heard  what  she  said;  she  is  right,  too,  when  she  says 
I'm  no  fit  company  for  a  lady.  I  hadn't  thought  of 
it  before,  and  it  started  me  to  thinking — thinking 
fast — and  I  just  lay  still  there  and  forgot  everything 
only  those  words;  and  then  I  heard  the  things  you 
said — mighty  kind  they  were,  too,  but  I  wasn't  think 
ing  of  them  much — only  trying  to  see  myself  as  peo 
ple  of  your  sort  would  see  me  if  they  knew  me  as  I  do, 
and  I  concluded  I  would  pan  out  pretty  small;  then 
I  heard  something  else  that  was  good  for  me,  but  bitter 


52  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

to  take.  And  then—  His  voice  grew  uncertain;  he 
was  not  looking  at  the  girl,  but  straight  ahead  of  him, 
his  features  softened,  his  eyes  half  closed  at  some 
memory. 

"And  then  what,  Genesee?"  She  felt  a  little  sorry 
for  him  as  he  was  speaking — a  little  kinder  since  he 
had  owned  his  own  unworthiness.  A  touch  of  remorse 
even  led  her  to  lay  a  couple  of  fingers  on  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat,  to  remind  him  of  her  presence  as  she  repeated : 
"And  then?" 

He  glanced  down  at  the  fingers — the  glance  made 
the  hand  drop  to  her  side  very  quickly — and  then  he 
coolly  brushed  his  sleeve  carefully  with  the  other 
hand. 

Then  for  a  little  bit  I  was  let  get  a  glimpse  of  what 
heaven  on  earth  might  mean  to  a  man,  if  he  hadn't 
locked  the  door  against  himself  and  dropped  into 
hell  instead.  This  is  a  blind  trail  I'm  leading  on, 
is  it,  Miss? — all  tso-lo.  Well,  it  doesn't  matter;  you 
would  have  to  drop  into  a  pretty  deep  gulch  yourself 
before  you  could  understand,  and  you'll  never  do  that— 
the  Almighty  forbid!"  he  added,  energetically.  "You 
belong  to  the  mountains  and  the  high  places,  and 
you're  too  sure-footed  not  to  stay  there.  You  can  go 
now.  I  only  stopped  you  to  say  that  my  listening 
mightn't  have  been  in  as  mean  a  spirit  as  you  judged. 
Judging  things  you  don't  understand  is  bad  business 
anyway — let  it  alone." 

With  that  admonition  he  turned  away,  striding 
through  the  laurel  growth  and  spruce,  and  on  down 
the  mountain,  leaving  Miss  Hardy  feeling  more  lec 
tured  and  astonished  than  she  had  often  been  in  her 
life. 

"Well,  upon  my  word!" 


BANKED  FIRES.  53 

It  is  not  an  original  exclamation — she  was  not  equal 
to  any  original  thought  just  then;  but  for  some  time 
after  his  disappearance  that  was  all  she  could  find 
to  say,  and  she  said  it  standing  still  there,  bareheaded 
and  puzzled;  then,  gathering  up  her  faculties  and  her 
skirts,  she  made  her  way  back  through  the  low  growth, 
and  sat  down  where  Clara  and  herself  had  sat  only  a 
little  while  before. 

"And  Clara  says  he  doesn't  talk!"  she  soliloquized, 
with  a  faint  smile  about  her  lips.  "Not  talk! — he  did 
not  give  me  a  chance  to  say  a  word,  even  if  I  had  wanted 
to.  I  feel  decidedly  'sat  upon,'  as  Hen  would  say,  and 
I  suppose  I  deserved  it." 

Then  she  missed  her  cap ,  and  went  to  look  for  it ;  but 
it  was  gone.  She  remembered  seeing  it  in  his  hand; 
he  must  have  forgotten  and  taken  it  with  him.  Then 
she  sat  down  again,  and  all  the  time  his  words,  and 
the  way  he  had  said  them,  kept  ringing  in  her  head— 
"Judging  things  you  don't  understand  is  bad  business." 

Of  course  he  was  right;  but  it  seemed  strange  for 
her  to  be  taken  to  task  by  a  man  like  that  on  such  a 
subject — an  uncouth  miner  and  hunter  in  the  Indian 
hills.  But  was  he  quite  uncouth?  While  he  made  her 
stop  and  listen,  his  earnestness  had  overleaped  that 
slurred  manner  of  speech  that  belongs  to  the  ignorant 
of  culture.  His  words  had  been  clearer  cut.  There 
had  been  the  ring  of  finished  steel  in  his  voice,  not 
the  thud  of  iron  in  the  ore,  and  it  had  cut  clear  a  path 
of  revelations.  The  man,  then,  could  do  more  than 
ride  magnificently,  and  look  a  Launcelot  in  buckskin — 
he  could  think — how  deeply  and  wildly  had  been  shown 
by  the  haggard  face  she  had  seen.  But  the  cause  of 
it?  Even  his  disjointed  explanation  had  given  her 
no  clue. 


54  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Tso-lo"  she  thought,  repeating  the  Chinook  word 
he  had  used;  "that  means  to  lose  one's  way — to  wan 
der  in  the  dark.  Well,  he  was  right.  That  is  what  I 
am  doing";  and  then  she  laughed  half  mockingly  at 
herself  as  she  added:  "And  Mr.  Jack  Genesee  has 
started  me  on  the  path — and  started  me  bare-headed. 
Oh,  dear,  what  a  muddle!  I  wonder  where  my  cap  is, 
and  I  wonder  where  the  man  went  to,  and  I  wonder — I 
wonder  what  he  meant  by  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  I 
haven't  seen  any  signs  of  it." 

But  she  had  seen  it — seen  it  and  laughed  mockingly, 
unbelievingly,  while  the  man  had  by  the  sight  been 
touched  into  a  great  heart-ache  of  desolation.  And 
yet  it  was  a  commonplace  thing  they  had  seen;  only 
two  lives  bound  together  by  the  wish  of  their  hearts 
and  a  wedding  ring— an  affection  so  honest  that  its 
fondness  could  be  frankly  shown  to  the  world. 
*****  * 

That  evening  Genesee  came  back  to  camp  looking 
tired,  and  told  Ivans  there  was  a  grizzly  waiting  to  be 
skinned  in  a  gully  not  far  off.  He  had  had  a  hard  tussle 
after  it  and  was  too  tired  to  see  to  the  pelt ;  and  then  he 
turned  to  Miss  Hardy  and  drew  her  cap  from  his  pocket. 

"I  picked  it  up  back  there  in  the  brush,  and  forgot 
to  give  it  to  you  before  going  out,"  he  said. 

That  was  all— no  look  or  manner  that  showed  any 
remembrance  of  their  conversation.  And  for  the  next 
two  days  the  girl  saw  very  little  of  their  guide;  no  more 
long  gallops  ahead  of  the  party.  Mr.  Genesee  had 
taken  a  sedate  turn,  and  remained  close  to  the  rest, 
and  if  any  of  the  ladies  received  more  of  his  attention 
than  another  it  -was  Mrs.  Hardy. 

He  had  for  her  something  approaching  veneration. 
In  her  tender,  half-shy  love  of  her  husband  she  seemed 


BANKED  FIRES  55 

to  him  as  the  Madonna  to  those  of  the  Roman  church — 
a  symbol  of  something  holy — of  a  purity  of  affection 
unknown  to  the  rough  man  of  the  hills.  Unpreten 
tious  little  Tillie  would  have  been  amazed  if  she  had 
suspected  the  pedestal  she  occupied  in  the  imagina 
tion  of  this  dark-faced  fellow,  whose  only  affection 
seemed  to  be  lavished  on  Mowitza.  Clara  always 
looked  at  him  somewhat  askance;  and  in  passing  a 
party  of  the  Indians  who  were  berry-hunting  in  the 
mountains,  she  noted  suspiciously  his  ready  speech 
in  their  own  language,  and  the  decided  deference  paid 
him  by  them;  the  stolid  stare  of  the  squaws  filled  her 
with  forebodings  of  covetousness  for  her  raiment— 
of  which  several  of  them  rather  stood  in  need,  though 
the  weather  was  warm— and  that  night  was  passed 
by  her  in  waking  dreams  of  an  Indian  massacre,  with 
their  guide  as  a  leader  of  the  enemy. 

"Do  you  know  them  very  well?"  asked  Miss  Hardy, 
riding  up  to  Genesee.  "Is  it  entirely  Chinook  they  are 
talking?  Let  me  try  my  knowledge  of  it.  I  should 
like  to  speak  to  them  in  their  jargon.  Can  I?" 

"You  can  try.  Here's  a  Siwash,  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  as  near  a  Boston  (American)  man  as  any  of 
them — try  him." 

And,  under  Genesee's  tuition,  she  asked  several 
questions  about  the  berry  yield  in  the  hills,  and  the  dis 
tance  to  markets  where  pelts  could  be  sold;  and  the 
Indian  answered  briefly,  expressing  distance  as  much 
by  the  sweep  of  his  hand  toward  the  west  as  by  the 
adjective  " siah-si-ah;"  and  Miss  Hardy,  well  satisfied 
with  her  knowledge,  would  have  liked  to  add  to  her 
possessions  the  necklace  of  bear's  claws  that  adorned 
the  bronze  throat  of  the  gentleman  who  answered  her 
questions. 


56  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

The  squaws  slouched  around  the  camp,  curious  and 
dirty,  here  and  there  a  half-breed  showing  the  paler 
blood  through  olive  skin.  The  younger  women  or 
girls  were  a  shade  less  repulsive  than  their  mothers, 
but  none  showed  material  for  a  romance  of  Indian  life. 
They  were  as  spiritless  as  ill-kept  cattle. 

Back  of  some  tethered  ponies  Miss  Hardy  noticed  a 
dark  form  dodging  as  if  to  avoid  being  seen.  A  squaw 
possessed  of  shyness  was  such  a  direct  contradiction 
of  those  she  had  seen,  that  the  white  girl  found  her 
self  watching  the  Indian  one  with  a  sort  of  curiosity — 
in  fact,  she  rode  her  horse  over  in  the  direction  of  the 
ponies,  thinking  the  form  she  had  a  glimpse  of  was  only 
a  child;  but  it  was  not,  for  back  of  the  ponies  it  lay 
flat  to  the  ground  as  a  snake,  only  the  head  raised, 
the  eyes  meeting  those  of  Miss  Hardy  with  a  half  scowl, 
and  the  bright-beaded  dress  outlining  the  form  of  a 
girl  perhaps  twenty  years  old,  and  dressed  much  neater 
than  any  she  had  seen  in  the  camp.  By  the  light 
tinge  of  color  she  was  evidently  a  half-breed,  and  the 
white  girl  was  about  to  turn  her  horse's  head,  when, 
with  a  low  exclamation,  the  other  seized  a  blanket 
that  had  slipped  from  a  pony,  and  quick  as  a  flash 
had  rolled  her  plump  form  in  it,  head  and  heels,  and 
dropped  like  one  asleep,  face  downward,  in  the  trampled 
grass. 

Wondering  at  the  sudden  hiding  and  its  cause,  Miss 
Hardy  turned  away  and  met  Genesee,  who  was  riding 
toward  her. 

"Shaky-looking  stock,"  he  commented,  supposing 
she  was  looking  at  the  ponies.  "The  rest  are  going  on, 
Miss;  we  have  to  do  some  traveling  to  reach  our  last 
camp  by  night-fall." 

As  they  rode  away,  Miss  Hardy  turned  for  a  last 


BANKED  FIRES.  57 

look  at  that  mummy-looking  form  by  the  ponies.  It 
apparently  had  not  moved.  She  wondered  if  it  was 
Genesee  the  girl  was  hiding  from,  and  if  so,  why?  Was 
their  guide  one  of  those  heroes  of  the  border  whose  face 
is  a  thing  of  terror  to  Indian  foe?  And  was  the  half- 
breed  girl  one  of  the  few  timid  ones?  She  could  not 
answer  her  own  questions,  and  something  kept  her  from 
speaking  to  Genesee  of  it;  in  fact,  she  did  not  speak  to 
him  of  anything  with  the  same  freedom  since  that  con 
versation  by  the  laurel  bushes. 

Sometimes  she  would  laugh  a  little  to  herself  as  she 
thought  of  how  he  had  brushed  off  that  coat-sleeve; 
it  had  angered  her,  amused  her,  and  puzzled  her.  That 
entire  scene  seemed  a  perplexing,  unreal  sort  of  an 
affair  to  her  sometimes,  especially  when  looking  at 
their  guide  as  he  went  about  the  commonplace  duties  in 
the  camp  or  on  the  trail.  An  undemonstrative,  prosaic 
individual  she  knew  he  appeared  to  the  rest;  laconic 
and  decided  when  he  did  speak,  but  not  a  cheery  com 
panion.  To  her  always,  after  that  day,  he  was  a  sug 
gestion  of  a  crater  in  which  the  fires  were  banked. 


58  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AT    LAST    CAMP. 

After  their  stop  at  the  Indian  camp,  which  Genesee 
explained  was  a  berrying  crowd  from  the  Kootenai 
tribe,  there  was,  of  course,  comment  among  the  visitors 
as  to  the  mixed  specimens  of  humanity  they  had  seen 
there. 

"I  don't  wonder  a  white  man  is  ashamed  of  an  Indian 
wife,"  said  Mrs.  Houghton.  "What  slouchy  crea 
tures!" 

"All  the  more  reason  for  a  white  man  to  act  the  part 
of  missionary,  and  marry  them,"  remarked  Rachel 
Hardy,  "and  teach  them  what  the  domestic  life  of  a 
woman  should  be." 

Genesee  turned  square  around  to  look  at  the  speaker 
—perhaps  she  did  not  strike  him  as  being  a  domestic 
woman  herself.  Whatever  the  cause  of  that  quick 
attention,  she  noticed  it,  and  added:  "Well,  Mr.  Gen 
esee,  don't  you  think  so?  You  must  have  seen  con 
siderable  of  that  sort  of  life." 

"I  have — some,"  he  answered  concisely,  but  show 
ing  no  disposition  to  discuss  it,  while  Mrs.  Houghton 
was  making  vain  efforts  to  engage  Miss  Hardy's  atten 
tion  by  the  splendid  spread  of  the  country  below  them ; 
but  it  was  ineffectual. 

"Yes,  Clara,  I  see  the  levels  along  that  river — I've 
been  seeing  them  for  the  past  two  hours — but  just 
now  I  am  studying  the  social  system  of  those  hills"; 
and  then  she  turned  again  to  their  guide.  "You  did 


AT  LAST  CAMP.  59 

not  answer  my  question,  Mr.  Genesee,"  she  said,  ignor 
ing  Mrs.  Houghton's  admonishing  glances.  "Do  you 
not  agree  with  my  idea  of  marriages  between  whites 
and  Indians?" 

"No!"  he  said  bluntly;  "most  of  the  white  men  I 
know  among  the  Indians  need  themselves  to  be  taught 
how  people  should  live;  they  need  white  women  to 
teach  them.  It's  uphill  work  showing  an  Indian  how 
to  live  decently  when  a  man  has  forgotten  how  himself. 
Missionary  work!  Squaw  men  are  about  as  fit  for  that 
as — as  hell's  fit  for  a  powder-house." 

And  under  this  emphatic  statement  and  the  shocked 
expression  of  Clara's  face,  Miss  Hardy  collapsed,  with 
the  conviction  that  there  must  be  lights  and  shades 
of  life  in  the  Indian  country  that  were  not  apparent 
to  the  casual  visitor.  She  wondered  sometimes  that 
Genesee  had  lived  there  so  long  with  no  family  ties,  and 
she  seldom  heard  him  speak  of  any  white  friend  in 
Montana — only  of  old  Davy  MacDougall  sometimes. 
Most  of  his  friends  had  Indian  names.  Altogether, 
it  seemed  a  purposeless  sort  of  existence. 

"Do  you  expect  to  live  your  life  out  here,  like  this?" 
she  asked  him  once.  "Don't  you  ever  expect  to  go 
back  home  ? ' ' 

"Hardly!     There  is  nothing  to  take  me  back  now." 

"And  only  a  horse  and  a  gun  to  keep  you  here?" 
she  smiled. 

"N — no;  something  besides,  Miss.  I've  got  a  right 
smart  of  a  ranch  on  the  other  side  of  the  Maple  range. 
It's  running  wild — no  stock  on  it;  but  in  Tamahnous 
Hill  there's  a  hole  I've  been  digging  at  for  the  past 
four  years.  MacDougall  reckons  I'm  'witched'  by 
it,  but  it  may  pan  out  all  right  some  of  these  days." 

"Gold  hunting?" 


60  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"No,  Miss,  silver;  and  it's  there.  I've  got  tired 
more  than  once  and  given  it  the  klatawa  (the  go-by); 
but  I'd  always  come  back,  and  I  reckon  I  always  will 
until  I  strike  it." 

"And  then?" 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  that  far  yet." 

And  thus  any  curiosity  about  the  man's  life  or  future 
was  generally  silenced.  He  had  told  her  many  things 
of  the  past;  his  life  in  the  mines  of  Colorado  and  Idaho, 
with  now  and  then  the  diversion  of  a  government  scout's 
work  along  the  border.  All  of  that  he  would  speak  of 
without  reserve,  but  of  the  actual  present  or  of  the 
future  he  would  say  nothing. 

' '  I  have  read  somewhere  in  a  book  of  a  man  without  a 
past,"  remarked  the  girl  to  Mrs.  Hardy;  "but  our  guide 
seems  a  man  utterly  without  a  future." 

"Perhaps  he  does  not  like  to  think  of  it  here  alone," 
suggested  Tillie  thoughtfully;  "he  must  be  very  lonely 
sometimes.  Just  see  how  he  loves  that  horse!" 

"Not  a  horse,  Tillie — a  klootchman  kiuatan"  corrected 
the  student  of  Chinook;  "If  you  are  going  to  live  out 
here,  you  must  learn  the  language  of  the  hills." 

"You  are  likely  to  know  it  first;"  and  then,  after  a 
little,  she  added:  But  noticing  that  man's  love  for 
his  Mowitza,  I  have  often  thought  how  kind  he  would 
be  to  a  wife.  I  think  he  has  a  naturally  affectionate 
nature,  though  he  does  swear — I  heard  him;  and  to 
grow  old  and  wild  here  among  the  Indians  and  squaw 
men  seems  too  bad.  He  is  intelligent — a  man  who 
might  accomplish  a  great  deal  yet.  You  know  he  is  com 
paratively  young — thirty-five,  I  heard  Hen  say." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Houghton  sarcastically;  "a  good 
age  at  which  to  adopt  a  child.  You  had  better  take 
him  back  as  one  of  the  fixtures  on  the  ranch,  Tillie; 


AT  LAST  CAMP.  61 

of  course  he  may  need  some  training  in  the  little  cour 
tesies  of  life,  but  no  doubt  Rachel  would  postpone  her 
return  East  and  offer  her  services  as  tutor;"  and  with 
this  statement  Mistress  Houghton  showed  her  disgust 
of  the  entire  subject. 

"She  is  'riled,'  "  said  the  girl,  looking  quizzically 
after  the  plump  retreating  form. 

"Why,  what  in  the  world — 

"Nothing  in  the  world,  Tillie,  and  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  Clara.  Her  ideas  of  the  world  are, 
and  always  will  be,  bounded  by  the  rules  and  regula 
tions  of  Willow  Centre,  Kentucky.  Of  course  it  isn't 
to  be  found  on  a  map  of  the  United  States,  but  it's  a 
big  place  to  Clara;  and  she  doesn't  approve  of  Mr. 
Genesee  because  he  lives  outside  its  knowledge.  She 
intimated  yesterday  that  he  might  be  a  horse-thief 
for  any  actual  acquaintance  we  had  with  his  resources 
or  manner  of  living." 

' '  Ridiculous ! ' '  laughed  Tillie.     ' '  That  man ! ' ' 

The  girl  slipped  her  arm  around  the  little  wife's 
waist  and  gave  her  a  hug  like  a  young  bear.  She  had 
been  in  a  way  lectured  and  snubbed  by  that  man,  but 
she  bore  no  malice. 

The  end  of  their  cultus  corrie  was  reached  as  they 
went  into  camp  for  a  two-days'  stay,  on  the  shoulder 
of  a  mountain  from  which  one  could  look  over  into  the 
Idaho  hills,  north  into  British  Columbia,  and  through 
the  fair  Kootenai  valleys  to  the  east,  where  the  home- 
ranch  lay. 

Houghton  and  Hardy  each  had  killed  enough  big 
game  to  become  inoculated  with  the  taste  for  wild 
life,  and  the  ladies  were  delighted  with  the  idea  of 
having  the  spoils  of  the  hunt  for  the  adornment  of  their 
homes;  and  altogether  the  trip  was  voted  a  big  success. 


62  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Is  there  anything  more  appetizing,  after  a  long  ride 
through  the  mountains,  than  to  rest  under  the  cedars 
at  sunset  and  hear  the  sizzle  of  broiled  meat  on  the 
red  coals,  and  have  the  aroma  of  coffee  borne  to  you 
on  the  breeze  that  would  lull  you  to  sleep  if  you  were 
not  so  hungry  ? 

"I  could  have  eaten  five  meals  during  every  twenty- 
four  hours  since  we  started,"  acknowledged  Rachel,  as 
she  watched  with  flattering  attention  the  crisping 
slices  of  venison  that  were  accumulating  on  a  platter 
by  the  fire. 

And  she  looked  as  if  both  the  appetite  and  the  wild 
living  had  agreed  with  her.  Clara  complained  that 
Rachel  really  seemed  to  pride  herself  on  the  amount 
of  tan  she  had  been  able  to  gather  from  the  wind  and 
the  sun,  while  Hardy  decided  that  only  her  light  hair 
would  keep  her  from  being  taken  for  an  Indian. 

But  for  all  the  looks  that  were  gaining  a  tinge  of 
wildness,  and  the  appetites  that  would  persist  in  grow 
ing  ravenous,  it  was  none  the  less  a  jolly,  pleasant 
circle  that  gathered  about  the  evening  meal,  some 
times  eaten  on  a  large  flat  stone,  if  any  were  handy, 
and  again  on  the  grass,  v/here  the  knives  and  small 
articles  of  table-ware  would  lose  themselves  in  the 
tall  spears;  but,  whatever  was  used  as  a  table,  the 
meal  in  the  evening  was  the  domestic  event  of  the 
day.  At  midday  there  was  often  but  a  hasty  lunch; 
breakfast  was  simply  a  preparation  for  travel;  but 
in  the  evening  all  were  prepared  for  rest  and  the  enjoy 
ment  of  either  eatables  or  society.  And  until  the 
darkness  fell  there  was  the  review  of  the  day's  hunt 
by  the  men — Hardy  and  Houghton  vying  with 
each  other  in  their  recitals — or,  as  Ivans  expressed  it, 
"swappin'  lies" — around  the  fire.  Sometimes  there 


AT  LAST  CAMP.  63 

would  be  singing,  and  blended  with  the  notes  of  night- 
birds  in  the  forest  would  sound  the  call  of  human  throats 
echoing  upward  in  old  hymns  that  all  had  known  some 
time,  in  the  East.  And  again  Tillie  would  sing  them 
a  ballad  or'  a  love-song  in  a  sweet,  fresh  voice;  or,  with 
Clara,  Hardy,  and  Houghton,  a  quartette  would  add 
volume  to  some  favorite,  their  scout  a  silent  listener. 
Rachel  never  sang  with  the  rest ;  she  preferred  whistling, 
herself.  And  many  a  time  when  out  of  sight  of  her  on 
the  trail,  she  was  located  by  that  boyish  habit  she  had 
of  echoing  the  songs  of  many  of  the  birds  that  were  new  to 
her,  learning  their  notes,  and  imitating  them  so 
well  as  to  bring  many  a  decoyed  answer  from  the  woods. 

Between  herself  and  the  guide  there  was  no  more  their 
former  camaraderie.  They  had  never  regained  their  old 
easy,  friendly  manner.  Still,  she  asked  him  that  night 
at  "last  camp"  of  the  music  of  the  Indians.  Had  they 
any?  Could  he  sing?  Had  there  ever  been  any  of 
their  music  published?  etc. 

And  he  told  them  of  the  airs  that  were  more  like 
chants,  like  the  echoes  of  whispering  or  moaning 
forests,  set  to  human  words;  of  the  dusky  throats 
that,  without  training,  yet  sang  together  with  never  a 
discord;  of  the  love-songs  that  had  in  them  the  minor 
cadences  of  sadness.  Only  their  war-songs  seemed  to 
carry  brightness,  and  they  only  when  echoes  of 
victory. 

In  the  low,  glowing  light  of  the  fire,  when  the  group 
around  it  faded  in  the  darkness,  he  seemed  to  forget 
his  many  listeners,  and  talked  on  as  if  to  only  one. 
To  the  rest  it  was  as  if  they  had  met  a  stranger  there 
that  evening  for  the  first  time,  and  found  him  enter 
taining.  Even  Mrs.  Houghton  dropped  her  slightly 
supercilious  manner  toward  him,  a  change  to  which 


34  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

he  was  as  indifferent  as  to  her  coolness.  It  may  have 
been  Tillie's  home-songs  in  the  evening  that  unlocked 
his  lips;  or  it  may  have  been  the  realization  that  the 
pleasure-trip  was  ended — that  in  a  short  time  he  would 
know  these  people  no  more,  who  had  brought  him 
home-memories  in  their  talk  of  home-lives.  It  may 
have  been  a  dash  of  recklessness  that  urged  him  to 
enjoy  it  for  a  little  only — this  association  that  sug 
gested  so  much  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 
Whatever  the  impulse  was,  it  showed  a  side  of  his 
nature  that  only  Rachel  had  gained  any  knowledge 
of  through  those  first  bright,  eager  days  of  their  cultus 
corrie. 

At  Tillie's  request  he  repeated  some  remembered 
fragments  of  Indian  songs  that  had  been  translated  into 
the  Red's  language,  and  of  which  he  gave  them  the 
English  version  or  meaning  as  well  as  he  could.  A 
couple  of  them  he  knew  entire,  and  to  Tillie's  delight  he 
hummed  the  plaintive  airs  until  she  caught  the  notes. 
And  even  after  the  rest  had  quietly  withdrawn  and 
rolled  themselves  in  blankets  for  the  night's  rest,  Hardy 
and  his  wife  and  Genesee  still  sat  there  with  old  legends 
of  Tsiatko,  the  demon  of  the  night,  for  company,  and 
with  strange  songs  in  which  the  music  would  yet  sound 
familiar  to  any  ears  used  to  the  shrilling  of  the  winds 
through  the  timber,  or  the  muffled  moans  of  the  wood- 
dove. 

And  in  the  sweet  dusk  of  the  night,  Rachel, 
the  first  to  leave  the  fire,  lay  among  the  odorous, 
spicy  branches  of  the  cedar  and  watched  the  picture 
of  the  group  about  the  fire.  All  was  in  darkness,  save 
when  a  bit  of  reflected  red  would  outline  form  or  feature, 
and  they  looked  rather  uncanny  in  the  red-and-black 
coloring.  An  Indian  council  or  the  grouping  of  witches 


AT  LAST  CAMP.  65 

and  warlocks  it  might  have  been,  had  one  judged  the 
scene  only  from  sight.  But  the  voices  of  the  final 
three,  dropped  low  though  they  were  for  the  sake  of 
the  supposed  sleepers,  yet  had  a  tone  of  pleasant  con 
verse  that  belied  their  impish  appearance. 

Those  voices  came  to  Rachel  dreamily,  merging 
their  music  with  the  drowsy  odors  of  a  spruce  pillow. 
And  through  them  all  she  heard  Tillie  and  Genesee 
singing  a  song  of  some  unlettered  Indian  poet' 

'  Lemolo  mika  tsolo  siah  polaklie, 
Towagh  tsee  chil-chil  siah  saghallie. 
Mika  na  chakko  ? — me  sika  chil-chil, 
O  pits  ah!  mika  winapia, 
Tsolo — tso-lo! ' ' 

"Wild  do  I  wander,  far  in  the  darkness, 
Shines  bright  a  sweet  star  far  up  above. 
Will  you  not  come  to  me  ?  you  are  the  star, 
Sweetheart!  I  wait, 
Lost! — in  the  dark!" 

And  the  white  girl's  mouth  curled  dubiously  in  that 
smile  that  always  vanquished  the  tender  curves  of  her 
lips,  and  then  dropped  asleep  whispering  the  refrain, 
"Tsolo— tso-lo!" 


66  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TSOLO TSO-LO! 

The  retracing  of  steps,  either  figuratively  or  liter 
ally,  is  always  provocative  of  thought  to  the  individual 
who  walks  again  over  the  old  paths;  the  waning  of  a 
moon  never  finds  the  same  state  of  feelings  in  the  heart 
that  had  throbbed  through  it  under  the  gold  sickle. 
Back  over  how  many  a  road  do  we  walk  with  a  sigh, 
remembering  the  laughter  that  had  once  echoed  along 
it!  Something  has  been  gained,  something  has  been 
lost,  since;  and  a  human  sigh  is  as  likely  to  be  called 
forth  by  one  cause  as  the  other. 

Miss  Rachel  Hardy,  who  usually  laughed  at  sighs  of 
sentiment,  did  not  indulge  in  them  as  one  by  one  the 
landmarks  of  the  past  three  weeks  rose  in  sight.  But 
different  natures  find  different  vents  for  feeling,  and 
she  may  have  got  rid  of  hers  by  the  long  gallops  she 
took  alone  over  the  now  known  trail,  priding  herself 
on  her  ability  to  find  her  way  miles  ahead  of  the  slower- 
moving  party;  and  resting  herself  and  horse  in  some 
remembered  retreat,  would  await  their  coming. 

Through  these  solitary  rides  she  began  to  understand 
the  fascination  such  a  free,  untrammeled  existence 
would  have  for  a  man.  One  must  feel  a  very  Adam 
in  the  midst  of  this  virginity  of  soil  and  life  of  the 
hills.  She  had  not  Tillie's  domestic  ideas  of  life,  else 
the  thought  of  an  Eve  might  also  have  occurred  to 
her.  But  though  she  wasted  no  breath  in  sighs  over 
the  retraced  cultus  corrie,  neither  did  she  in  the  mockery 


TSOLO  —  TSO-LO!  67 

that  had  tantalized  Clara  in  the  beginning.  That  lady 
did  not  find  her  self-imposed  duty  of  chaperon  nearly 
so  arduous  as  at  first,  since,  from  the  time  the  other 
ladies  awakened  to  the  fact  that  their  guide  had  a  good 
baritone  voice  and  could  be  interesting,  the  girl  forgot 
her  role  of  champion,  also  her  study  of  mongrel  lan 
guages;  for  she  dropped  that  ready  use  of  Chinook  of 
which  she  had  been  proud,  especially  in  her  conversa 
tion  with  him,  and  only  used  it  if  chance  threw  her 
in  the  way  of  Indians  hunting  or  gathering  olallie 
(berries)  in  the  hills. 

Genesee  never  noticed  by  word  or  action  the  changed 
manner  that  dropped  him  out  of  her  knowledge.  Once 
or  twice,  in  crossing  a  bit  of  country  that  was  in  any 
way  dangerous  to  a  stranger,  he  had  said  no  one  must 
leave  the  party  or  go  out  of  hearing  distance;  and 
though  the  order  was  a  general  one,  they  all  knew  he 
meant  Rachel,  and  the  ladies  wondered  a  little  if  that 
generally  headstrong  damsel  would  heed  it,  or  if  she 
would  want  willfully  to  take  the  bit  in  her  teeth  and 
go  as  she  pleased — a  habit  of  hers;  but  she  did  not; 
she  rode  demurely  with  the  rest,  showing  the  respect 
of  a  soldier  to  the  orders  of  a  commander.  Along  the 
last  bit  of  bad  country  he  spoke  to  her  of  the  enforced 
care  through  the  jungle  of  underbrush,  where  the 
chetwoot  (black  bear)  was  likely  to  be  met  and  prove 
a  dangerous  enemy,  at  places  where  the  trail  led  along 
the  edge  of  ravines,  and  where  a  fright  to  a  horse  was 
a  risky  thing. 

"It's  hard  on  you,  Miss,  to  be  kept  back  here  with 
the  rest  of  us,"  he  said,  half  apologetically;  "you're 
too  used  to  riding  free  for  this  to  be  any  pleasure, 
but—" 

"Pon't  distress  yourself  about  me,"  she  answered 


68  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

easily,  but  without  looking  at  him.  "I  have  felt  a  little 
lazy  to-day,  so  has  Betty,  and  have  been  satisfied  to 
loaf;  but  now  we  are  at  the  edge  of  this  bad  strip,  and 
just  down  over  this  bend  ahead  is  a  long  stretch  of 
level,  and  I  think — yes,  I  am  'quite  sure— I  am  ready 
now  for  a  run." 

And  without  waiting  to  hear  either  assent  or  dissent 
to  her  intention,  she  touched  Betty  with  the  whip,  and 
Mowitza  and  her  master  were  left  behind,  much  to 
Mowitza's  dissatisfaction.  She  gave  one  plunge  ahead 
as  if  to  follow,  but  Genesee's  hand  on  the  bridle  had 
a  quick,  cruel  grip  for  a  moment,  and  in  slow  silence 
they  made  their  way  down  the  timbered  slope  to  the 
lower  levels.  The  girl,  free  from  companionship  save 
her  own  thoughts,  galloped  through  the  odorous,  shad- 
do  wy  table-lands,  catching  here  and  there  a  glimpse  of 
glistening  water  in  a  river  ahead,  as  it  trailed  its  length 
far  below  the  plateaus,  and  shone  like  linked  diamonds 
away  toward  the  east. 

She  remembered  the  river;  it  was  a  branch  of  the 
Kootenai.  To  be  near  it  meant  but  a  short  journey 
home;  two  days  more,  perhaps,  and  then — well,  their 
outing  would  be  over.  She  would  go  back  East,  and 
say  good-bye  to  Betty;  and  then  she  began  to  think 
of  that  man  who  belonged  to  these  hills  and  who  never 
need  leave  them — never  need  go  a  mile  without  his 
horse,  if  he  did  not  choose;  and  she  envied  him  as 
she  could  not  have  thought  it  possible  to  do  six  months 
before — to  envy  a  man  such  a  primitive  existence, 
such  simple  possessions!  But  most  human  wants  are 
so  much  a  matter  of  association,  and  Rachel  Hardy, 
though  all  unconscious  of  it,  was  most  impression 
able  to  surroundings.  Back  of  her  coolness  and  careless 
ness  was  a  sensitive  temperament  in  which  the  pulses 


TSOLO  — TSO-LO!  69 

were  never  stilled.  It  thrilled  her  with  quick  sympa 
thies  for  which  she  was  vexed  with  herself,  and  which 
she  hid  as  well  as  she  could.  She  had  more  than  likely 
never  tried  to  analyze  her  emotions;  they  were  seldom 
satisfactory  enough  for  her  to  grant  them  so  much 
patience;  but  had  she  done  so,  she  would  have  found 
her  desires  molded  as  much  by  association  and  sentiment 
as  most  other  human  nature  of  her  age. 

Once  or  twice  she  looked  back  as  she 'left  the  tim 
ber,  but  could  see  nothing  of  the  others,  and  Betty 
seemed  to  scent  the  trail  home,  and  long  for  the  ranch 
and  the  white-coated  flocks  of  the  pastures,  for  she 
struck  out  over  the  table-lands,  where  her  hoofs  fell 
so  softly  in  the  grass  that  the  wild  things  of  the  ground- 
homes  and  the  birds  that  rest  on  the  warm  earth 
scampered  and  flew  from  under  the  enemy's  feet  that 
were  shod  with  iron.  A  small  herd  of  elk  with  uncouth 
heads  and  monstrous  antlers  were  startled  from  the 
shelter  of  a  knoll  around  which  she  cantered;  for  a 
moment  the  natives  and  the  stranger  gazed  at  each 
other  with  equal  interest,  and  then  a  great  buck  plunged 
away  over  the  rolling  land  to  the  south,  and  the 
others  followed  as  if  they  had  been  given  a  word  of 
command. 

The  girl  watched  them  out  of  sight,  finding  them, 
like  the  most  of  Montana  natives,  strange  and  inter 
esting — not  only  the  natives,  but  the  very  atmosphere 
of  existence,  with  its  tinges  of  wildness  and  coloring 
of  the  earth;  even  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun 
had  a  distinct  character  of  its  own,  in  the  rarefied  air 
of  this  land  that  seemed  so  far  off  from  all  else  in  the 
world.  For  in  the  valley  of  the  Kootenai,  where  the 
light  breaks  over  the  mountains  of  the  east  and  van 
ishes  again  over  the  mountains  of  the  west,  it  is  hard 


70  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

at  times  to  realize  that  its  glory  is  for  any  land  but 
the  mellow,  sun-kissed  "park"  whose  only  gates  open 
to  the  south. 

The  late  afternoon  was  coming  on;  only  an  hour  or 
so  of  sun,  and  then  the  long  flush  twilight. 

Remembering  the  camping-spot  they  were  making 
for,  she  gave  Betty  rein,  thinking  to  reach  it  and  have 
a  fire  built  on  their  arrival,  and  her  hard  ride  gave  her 
a  longing  for  the  sight  of  the  pack-mules  with  the 
eatables. 

Another  of  those  ugly,  jolting  bits  of  scrub-timber 
had  to  be  crossed  before  the  haven  of  rest  was  reached. 
Betty  had  almost  picked  her  way  through  it,  when  a 
huge  black  something  came  scrambling  down  through 
the  brush  almost  in  front  of  them.  The  little  mare 
shied  in  terror,  and  the  girl  tried  to  make  a  circuit 
of  the  animal,  which  she  could  see  was  an  enormous 
black  bear.  It  did  not  seem  to  notice  her,  but  was 
rolling  and  pitching  downward  as  if  on  a  trail — no 
doubt  that  of  honey  in  a  tree.  Managing  Betty  was 
not  an  easy  matter,  and  it  took  all  of  the  girl's  strength 
to  do  so  until  the  black  stranger  passed,  and  then,  on 
loosening  the  bridle,  the  terrified  beast  gave  a  leap 
forward.  There  was  a  crash,  a  growl  from  under  her 
feet,  and  an  answering  one  from  the  huge  beast  that 
had  just  gone  by  them;  she  had  been  followed  by  two 
cubs  that  had  escaped  Rachel's  notice  in  the  thick 
brush,  as  all  her  attention  had  been  given  to  the  mother; 
but  Betty's  feet  coming  down  on  one  of  the  cubs  had 
brought  forth  a  call  that  the  girl  knew  might  mean  a 
war  of  extermination.  With  a  sharp  cut  of  the  whip, 
Betty,  wild  from  the  clawing  thing  at  her  feet,  sprang 
forward  over  it  with  a  snort  of  terror,  just  as  the  mother 
with  fierce  growls  broke  through  the  brush. 


TSOLO  —  TSO-LO!  71 

Once  clear  of  them,  the  little  mare  ran  like  mad 
through  the  rough  trail  over  which  she  had  picked  her 
way  so  carefully  but  a  little  before.  Stones  and  loose 
earth  clattered  down  the  gully,  loosened  by  her  flying 
feet,  and  dashed  ominously  in  the  mountain  stream 
far  below.  The  girl  was  almost  torn  from  the  saddle 
by  the  low  branches  of  the  trees  under  which  she  was 
borne.  In  vain  she  tried  to  check  or  moderate  the 
mare's  gait.  She  could  do  little  but  drop  low  on  the 
saddle  and  hang  there,  wondering  if  she  should  be 
able  to  keep  her  seat  until  they  got  clear  of  the  tim 
ber.  The  swish  of  some  twigs  across  her  eyes  half 
blinded  her,  and  it  seemed  like  an  hour  went  by  with 
Betty  crashing  through  the  brush,  guiding  herself, 
and  seeming  to  lose  none  of  her  fright.  Her  ears  were 
deaf  to  the  girl's  voice,  and  at  last,  stumbling  in  her 
headlong  run,  her  rider  was  thrown  against  a  tree, 
knowing  nothing  after  the  sickening  jar,  and  seeing 
nothing  of  Betty,  who,  freed  from  her  burden,  recov 
ered  her  footing,  and,  triumphant,  dashed  away  on  a 
cultits  "coolie"  (run)  of  her  own. 

When  Rachel  recovered  her  powers  of  reasoning,  she 
felt  too  lazy,  too  tired  to  use  them.  She  ached  all 
over  from  the  force  of  the  fall,  and  though  realizing 
that  the  sun  was  almost  down,  and  that  she  was  alone 
there  in  the  timber,  all  she  felt  like  doing  was  to  drag 
herself  into  a  more  comfortable  position  and  go  to 
sleep ;  but  real  sleep  did  not  come  easily — only  a  drowsy 
stupor,  through  which  she  realized  she  was  hungry, 
and  wondered  if  the  rest  were  eating  supper  by  that 
time,  and  if  they  had  found  Betty,  and  if — no,  rather, 
when  would  they  find  her? 

She  had  no  doubt  just  yet  that  they  would  find 
her;  she  could  half  imagine  how  carefully  and 


72  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

quickly  Mowitza  would  cover  the  ground  after  they 
missed  her.  Of  course  there  were  other  horses  in  the 
party,  but  Mowitza  was  the  only  one  she  happened  to 
think  of.  She  did  not  know  where  she  was;  the  mare 
had  struck  into  a  new  trail  for  herself,  and  had  dropped 
her  rider  on  a  timbered  slope  of  one  of  the  foot-hills, 
where  there  w^ere  no  remembered  landmarks,  and 
the  closeness  of  night  would  prevent  her  from  seeking 
them. 

Twice  she  roused  herself  and  tried  to  walk,  but 
she  was  dizzily  sick  from  the  wild  ride  and  the  fall 
that  had  stunned  her,  and  both  times  she  was  com 
pelled  to  drop  back  on  her  couch  of  grass.  The  stars 
began  to  creep  out  in  the  clear,  warm  sky,  and  up 
through  the  timber  the  shadows  grew  black,  and  it  all 
seemed  very  peaceful  and  very  lovely.  She  thought 
she  would  not  mind  sleeping  there  if  she  only  had  a 
blanket,  and — yes,  some  hot  coffee — for  through  the 
shadows  of  the  lower  hills  the  dew  falls  quickly  and 
already  the  coolness  made  itself  felt  with  a  little  shiver. 
She  searched  her  pocket  for  some  matches — not  a  match, 
therefore  no  fire. 

A  sound  in  the  distance  diverted  her  thoughts  from 
disappointment,  and  she  strained  her  ears  for  a  repeti 
tion  of  it.  Surely  it  was  a  shot,  but  too  far  off  for  any 
call  of  hers  to  answer  it.  She  could  do  nothing  but 
listen  and  wait,  and  the  waiting  grew  long,  so  long  that 
she  concluded  it  could  be  no  one  on  her  trail — perhaps 
some  of  the  Indians  in  the  hills.  She  would  be  glad  to 
see  even  them,  she  thought,  for  all  she  met  had  seemed 
kindly  disposed. 

Then  she  fell  to  wondering  about  that  half-breed  girl 
who  had  hid  back  of  the  ponies ;  was  it  Genesee  she  was 
afraid  of,  and  if  so,  why? 


"7  am  so  glad — it — is — you."     Page  73. 


TSOLO  —  TSO-LO!  73 

Suddenly  a  light  gleamed  through  the  woods  above 
her;  a  bent  figure  was  coming  down  the  hill  carrying 
a  torch,  and  back  of  it  a  horse  was  following  slowly. 

"Genesee!"  called  a  glad  voice  through  the  dusk. 
"Genesee!" 

There  was  no  word  in  answer;  only  the  form  straight 
ened,  and  with  the  torch  held  high  above  his  head  he 
plunged  down  through  the  trees,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
in  answer  to  her  voice. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet,  but  swayed  unsteadily  as 
she  went  to  meet  him. 

'I  am  so  glad — it — is — you,"  she  said,  her  hs^ds 
outstretched  as  he  came  close.  And  then  that  return 
ing  dizziness  sent  her  staggering  forward,  half  on  her 
knees  and  half  in  his  arms,  as  he  threw  the  torch  from 
him  and  caught  her. 

She  did  not  faint,  though  the  only  thing  she  was 
still  conscious  of  was  that  she  was  held  in  strong  arms, 
and  held  very  closely,  and  the  beat  of  a  heart  that 
was  not  her  own  throbbed  against  her  rather  nerveless 
form.  He  had  not  yet  spoken  a  word,  but  his  breath 
coming  quickly,  brokenly,  told  of  great  exhaustion, 
or  it  may  be  excitement. 

Opening  her  eyes,  she  looked  up  into  the  face  that 
had  a  strange  expression  in  the  red  light  from  the 
torch  —  his  eyes  seemed  searching  her  own  so  curi 
ously. 

''I — I'm  all  right,"  she  half  smiled  in  answer  to  what 
she  thought  an  unspoken  query,  "only" — and  a  wave 
of  forgetfulness  crept  over  the  estrangement  of  the  late 
days — and  she  added — "only — Hyas  till  nika"  (I  am 
very  tired). 

Her  eyes  were  half  closed  in  the  content  of  being 
found,  and  the  safety  of  his  presence.  She  had  not 


74  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

changed  her  position  or  noticed  that  he  had  not  spoken. 
His  hat  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  something  almost 
boyish  was  in  the  bend  of  his  bared  head  and  the  soft 
ness  of  his  features  as  his  face  drooped  low  over  her 
own.  Death  brings  back  the  curves  of  youth  to 
aged  faces  sometimes — is  it  the  only  change  that 
does  so? 

She  felt  the  hand  on  her  shoulder  trembling;  was 
it  with  her  weight — and  he  so  strong?  A  muttered 
sentence  came  to  her  ears,  through  which  she  could 
only  distinguish  a  word  that  in  its  suppressed  force 
might  belong  to  either  a  curse  or  a  prayer — an  intense 
"Christ!" 

That  aroused  her  to  a  realization  of  what  she  had 
been  too  contented  to  remember.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  raised  her  head  from  his  arm,  brushing  his  lips  with 
her  hair  as  she  did  so. 

"Were  you  so  much  alarmed?"  she  asked  in  a  clearer, 
more  matter-of-fact  way,  as  she  propped  herself  up  on 
his  outstretched  arm;  "and  did  you  come  alone  to 
find  me?" 

He  drew  back  from  her  with  a  long,  indrawn  breath, 
and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  to  her,  and  he 
did  so  with  his  eyes  still  on  her  face  and  that  curious 
expression  in  them.  He  was  half  kneeling,  his  body 
drawn  back  and  away  from  her,  but  his  eyes  unchanging 
in  their  steadiness.  As  the  girl  lay  there  full  length 
on  the  mountain  grass,  only  her  head  raised  and  turned 
toward  him,  she  might  have  been  a  Lamia  from  their 
attitudes  and  his  expression. 

"It  seemed  long  to  wait,"  she  continued,  turning  her 
eyes  toward  Mowitza,  who  had  quietly  come  near  them; 


TSOLO  — TSO-LO!  75 

"but  I  was  not  afraid.  I  knew  you  would  find  me.  I 
would  have  walked  back  to  meet  you  if  the  fall  had 
not  made  me  so  dizzy.  I  am  decidedly  wake  kloshe" 
(no  good);  and  she  smiled  as  she  reached  out  her  hand 
to  him,  and  he  helped  her  rise  to  her  feet.  "I  feel 
all  jolted  to  pieces,"  she  said,  taking  a  few  steps  toward 
a  tree  against  which  she  leaned.  "And  even  now 
that  you  have  come,  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  get 
to  camp." 

"I  will  get  you  there,"  he  answered  briefly.  "Did 
the  mare  throw  you?" 

"I  am  not  sure  what  she  did,"  answered  the  girl. 
"She  fell,  I  think,  and  I  fell  with  her,  and  when  I  could 
see  trees  instead  of  stars  she  had  recovered  and  dis 
appeared.  Oh!  Did  you  see  the  bear?" 

"Yes,  and  shot  her.  She  might  have  killed  you 
when  her  temper  was  up  over  that  cub.  How  did  it 
happen?" 

Each  of  them  was  a  little  easier  in  speech  than  at 
first,  and  she  told  him  as  well  as  she  could  of  the  episode, 
and  her  own  inability  to  check  Betty.  And  he  told 
her  of  the  fright  of  the  others,  and  their  anxiety,  and 
that  he  had  sent  them  straight  ahead  to  camp,  while 
he  struck  into  the  timber  where  Betty  had  left  the  old 
trail. 

"I  promised  them  to  have  word  of  you  soon,"  he 
added;  "and  I  reckon  they'll  be  mighty  glad  you  can 
take  the  word  yourself — it's  more  than  they  expected. 
She  might  have  killed  you." 

His  tone  and  repetition  of  the  words  showed  the  fear 
that  had  been  uppermost  in  his  thoughts. 

"Yes — she  might,"  agreed  the  girl.  "That  is  a  lesson 
to  me  for  my  willfulness;"  and  then  she  smiled  mock 
ingly  with  a  gleam  of  her  old  humor,  adding:  "And  so 


76  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

in  the  future,  for  the  sake  of  my  neck  and  the  safety 
of  my  bones,  I  will  be  most  obedient  to  orders,  Mr. 
Genesee  Jack." 

He  only  looked  at  her  across  the  nickering  circle  of 
light  from  the  torch.  It  must  have  dazzled  his  eyes, 
for  in  putting  on  his  hat  he  pulled  it  rather  low  over 
his  forehead,  and  turning  his  back  abruptly  on  her  he 
walked  over  for  Mowitza. 

But  he  did  not  bring  her  at  once.  He  stood  with 
his  elbows  on  her  shoulders  and  his  head  bent  over  his 
clasped  hands,  like  a  man  who  is  thinking — or  else  very 
tired. 

Rachel  had  again  slipped  down  beside  the  tree;  her 
head  still  seemed  to  spin  around  a  little  if  she  stood 
long;  and  from  that  point  of  vantage  she  could  easily 
distinguish  the  immovable  form  in  the  shifting  lights 
and  shadows. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  man?"  she  asked  her 
self  as  he  stood  there.  "He  was  glad  to  find  me — I 
know  it;  and  why  he  should  deliberately  turn  his  back 
and  walk  away  like  that,  I  can't  see.  But  he  shan't 
be  cool  or  sulky  with  me  ever  again;  I  won't  let  him." 

And  with  this  determination  she  said: 

"Genesee!" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  but  did  not  move. 

"Now  that  you  have  found  me,  are  you  going  to  leave 
me  here  all  night?"  she  asked  demurely. 

"No,  Miss,"  he  answered,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
bridle.  "Come,  Mowitza,  we  must  take  her  to  camp;" 
and  striding  back  with  quick,  decided  movements  that 
were  rather  foreign  to  his  manner,  he  said: 

"Here  she  is,  Miss;  can  you  ride  on  that  saddle?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I — I — suppose  so;  but  how 
are  you  to  get  there?" 


TSOLO  — TSO-LO!  77 

"Walk,"  he  answered  concisely. 

"Why,  how  far  is  it?" 

"About  five  miles — straight  across." 

"Can  we  go  straight  across?" 

"No." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed,  half  vexed. 

"Mr.  Genesee  Jack,"  she  remarked,  "you  can  be  one 
of  the  most  aggravatingly  non-committal  men  I  ever 
met.  It  has  grown  as  dark  as  a  stack  of  black  cats, 
and  I  know  we  must  have  an  ugly  trip  to  make  with 
only  one  horse  between  us.  Do  you  suppose  I  have  no 
natural  curiosity  as  to  how  we  are  to  get  there,  and 
when?  Don't  be  such  a  lock-and-key  individual.  I 
can't  believe  it  is  natural  to  you.  It  is  an  acquired 
habit,  and  hides  your  real  self  often." 

"And  a  good  thing  it  does,  I  reckon,"  he  returned; 
"locks  and  keys  are  good  things  to  have,  Miss;  don't 
quarrel  with  mine  or  my  ways  to-night ;  wait  till  I  leave 
you  safe  with  your  folks,  then  you  can  find  fault  or 
laugh,  whichever  you  please.  It  won't  matter  then." 

His  queer  tone  kept  her  from  answering  at  once, 
and  she  sat  still,  watching  him  adjust  the  stirrup,  and 
then  make  a  new  torch  of  pine  splits  and  knots. 

"What  do  you  call  a  torch  in  Chinook?"  she  asked 
after  a  little,  venturing  on  the  supposed  safe  ground 
of  jargon. 

"La  gome  towagh,"  he  answered,  splitting  a  withe  to 
bind  them  together,  and  using  a  murderous  looking 
hunting-knife  on  which  the  light  glimmered  and  fretted. 

"And  a  knife?"  she  added. 

"Opitsah." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "Opitsah  means 
sweetheart,"  she  returned;  "I  know  that  much  myself. 
Are  you  not  getting  a  little  mixed.  Professor?" 


78  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I  think  not,"  he  said,  glancing  across  at  her;  "the 
same  word  is  used  for  both;  and,"  he  added,  thrusting 
the  knife  in  its  sheath  and  rising  to  his  feet,  "I  reckon 
the  men  who  started  the  jargon  knew  what  they  were 
talking  about,  too.  Come,  are  you  ready?" 

Assuredly,  though  he  had  hunted  for  her,  and  been 
glad  to  find  her  alive,  yet  now  that  he  had  found  her 
he  had  no  fancy  for  conversation,  and  he  showed  a 
decided  inclination  to  put  a  damper  on  her  attempts 
at  it.  He  lifted  her  to  the  saddle,  and  walking  at 
Mowitza's  head,  they  started  on  their  home  journey 
through  the  night. 

"The  moon  will  be  up  soon,"  he  remarked,  glancing 
up  at  the  sky.  "We  only  need  a  torch  for  the  gulch 
down  below  there." 

She  did  not  answer;  the  movement  of  the  saddle 
brought  back  the  dizziness  to  her  head — all  the  glare 
of  the  torch  was  a  blur  before  her.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  thinking  it  would  pass  away,  but  it  did  not,  and 
she  wondered  why  he  stalked  on  like  that,  just  as  if  he 
did  not  care,  never  once  looking  toward  her  or  noticing 
how  she  was  dropping  forward  almost  on  Mowitza's 
neck.  Then,  as  they  descended  a  steep  bit  of  hill,  she 
became  too  much  lost  to  her  surroundings  for  even  that 
speculation,  and  could  only  say  slowly: 

"Tsolo,  Genesee?" 

"No,"  he  answered  grimly,  "not  now." 

But  she  knew  or  heard  nothing  of  the  tone  that  implied 
more  than  it  expressed.  She  could  only  reach  grop 
ingly  toward  him  with  one  hand,  as  if  to  save  herself 
from  falling  from  the  saddle.  Only  her  finger-tips 
touched  his  shoulder — it  might  have  been  a  drooping 
branch  out  of  the  many  under  which  they  went,  for  all 
the  weight  of  it;  but  grim  and  unresponsive  as  he  was 


He  turned  and  caught  her  arm.     Page 


TSOLO  —  TSO-LO.  79 

in  some  ways,  he  turned,  through  some  quick  sympathy 
at  the  touch  of  her  hand,  and  caught  her  arm  as  she 
was  about  to  fall  forward.  In  an  instant  she  was  lifted 
from  the  saddle  to  her  feet,  and  his  face  was  as  white  as 
hers  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Dead!"  he  said,  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way,  as  her  hand 
dropped  nerveless  from  his  own,  and  he  lifted  her  in  his 
arms,  watching  for  some  show  of  life  in  the  closed  lids 
and  parted  lips.  And  then  with  a  great  shivering 
breath,  he  drew  the  still  face  to  his  own,  and  in  a  half- 
motherly  way  smoothed  back  the  fair  hair  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child,  whispering  over  and  over:  "Not  dead, 
my  pretty!  not  you,  my  girl!  Here,  open  your  eyes; 
listen  to  me;  don't  leave  me  like  this  until  I  tell  you— 
tell  you — God!  I  wish  I  was  dead  beside  you!  Ah, 
my  girl!  my  girl!" 


80  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

UNDER    THE    CHINOOK    MOON. 

Ikt  polaklie  konaway  moxt. 

Over  the  crowns  of  the  far  hills  the  moon  wheeled 
slowly  up  into  the  sky,  giving  the  shadows  a  cloak  of 
blue  mist,  and  vying  with  the  forgotten  torch  in  light 
ing  up  the  group  in  the  gulch.  The  night  winds  rustled 
through  the  leaves  and  sighed  through  the  cedars; 
and  the  girl's  voice,  scarcely  louder  than  the  whispers 
of  the  wood,  said:  "Genesee!  Tillie!" 

"Yes,  Miss,"  the  man  answered,  as  he  lowered  her 
head  from  his  shoulder  to  the  sward,  making  a  pillow 
for  her  of  his  hat.  With  returning  life  and  conscious 
ness  she  again  slipped  out  of  his  reach  or  possession, 
and  himself  and  his  emotions  were  put  aside,  to  be 
hidden  from  her  eyes. 

Through  the  blessing  of  death,  infinite  possession 
comes  to  so  many  souls  that  life  leaves  beggared;  and 
in  those  hurried  moments  of  uncertainty,  she  belonged 
to  him  more  fully  than  he  could  hope  for  while  she 
lived. 

"Is  it  you,  Genesee?"  she  said,  after  looking  at  him 
drowsily  for  a  little.  "I — I  thought  Tillie  was  here, 
crying,  and  kissing  me." 

"No,  Miss,  you  fainted,  I  reckon,  and  just  dreamed 
that  part  of  it,"  he  answered,  but  avoiding  the  eyes 
that,  though  drowsy,  looked  so  directly  at  him. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  agreed.     "I  tried  to  reach  you 


UNDER  THE  CHINOOK  MOON.  81 

when  I  felt  myself  going;  but  you  wouldn't  look 
around.  Did  you  catch  me  ?" 

"Yes;  and  I  don't  think  you  were  quite  square  with 
me  back  there ;  you  told  me  you  were  all  right ;  but  you 
must  have  got  hurt  more  than  you  owned  up  to.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  ? ' ' 

"But  I  am  not — indeed  I  am  not!"  she  persisted. 
"I  was  not  at  all  injured  except  for  the  jar  of  the  fall; 
it  leaves  me  dizzy  and  sick  when  I  sit  upright  in  the 
saddle— that  is  all." 

"And  it  is  enough,"  he  returned  decidedly;  "do  you 
'spose,  if  you'd  told  me  just  how  you  felt,  I  should 
have  set  you  there  to  ride  through  these  hills  and  hol 
lows?" 

"What  else  could  you  do?"  she  asked;  "you  couldn't 
bring  a  carriage  for  me." 

"May  be  not,  but  I  could  have  ridden  Mowitza  myself 
and  carried  you." 

"That  would  be  funny,"  she  smiled.  "Poor  Mowitza! 
could  she  carry  double  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  he  answered  curtly;  perhaps  the  situation 
did  not  strike  him  in  a  humorous  light.  "Yes,  she  can, 
and  that's  what  she  will  have  to  do.  Let  me  know 
when  you  feel  able  to  start." 

"I  think  I  do  now,"  she  said,  raising  herself  from  the 
ground;  "I  am  a  little  shaky,  but  if  I  do  not  have  to  sit 
upright  I  can  keep  my  wits  about  me,  I  believe.  Will 
you  help  me,  please?" 

He  lifted  her  into  the  saddle  without  a  word,  and  then 
mounting  himself,  he  took  her  in  front  of  him,  circling 
her  with  one  arm  and  guiding  Mowitza  with  the  other, 
with  as  much  unconcern  as  if  he  had  carried  damsels  in 
Uke  cavalier  fashion  all  his  life. 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  little  through  the  shadows 

6 


82  $OLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

of  the  valley,  where  the  moon's  light  only  fell  in  patches. 
His  eyes  were  straight  ahead,  on  the  alert  for  gullies 
and  pitfalls  along  the  blind  trail.  He  seemed  to 
have  no  glances  for  the  girl  whose  head  was  on 
his  shoulder,  but  whom  he  held  most  carefully. 
Once  he  asked  how  she  felt,  and  if  she  was  com 
fortable;  and  she  said  "Yes,  thank  you,"  very 
demurely,  with  that  mocking  smile  about  her  lips. 
She  felt  like  laughing  at  the  whole  situation — all  the 
more  so  because  he  looked  so  solemn,  almost  grim. 
She  always  had  an  insane  desire  to  laugh  when 
in  circumstances  where  any  conventional  woman  would 
be  gathering  up  her  dignity.  It  had  got  her  into  scrapes 
often,  and  she  felt  as  if  it  was  likely  to  do  so  now.  The 
movement  of  the  horse  no  longer  made  her  ill,  'since 
she  did  not  have  to  sit  upright;  she  was  only  a  little 
dizzy  at  times,  as  if  from  the  rocking  of  a  swing,  and 
lazily  comfortable  with  that  strong  arm  and  shoulder 
for  support. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  getting  heavy,"  she  remarked 
after  a  while;  "if  I  could  get  my  arm  around  back  of 
you  and  hold  either  the  saddle  or  reach  up  to  your 
shoulder,  I  might  not  be  such  a  dead  weight  on  your 
arm." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  was  the  brief  reply  that  again 
aroused  her  desire  to  laugh.  It  did  seem  ridiculous 
to  be  forced  into  a  man's  arms  like  that,  and  the  humor 
ous  part  of  it  was  heightened,  in  her  eyes,  by  his  appar 
ent  sulkiness  over  the  turn  affairs  had  taken. 

She  slipped  her  arm  across  his  back,  however,  and 
up  to  his  shoulder,  thus  lightening  her  weight  on  the 
arm  that  circled  her,  an  attempt  to  which  he  appeared 
indifferent.  And  so  they  rode  on  out  of  the  valley 
into  the  level  land  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and  then  into 


UNDER  THE  CHINOOK  MOON.  83 

the  old  trail  where  the  route  was  more  familiar  and  not 
so  much  care  needed. 

The  girl  raised  her  head  drowsily  as  she  noted  some 
old  landmarks  in  the  misty  light. 

"Poor  Mowitza!"  she  said;  "she  did  not  have  such 
a  load  when  she  came  over  this  road  before;  it  was  the 
day  after  you  joined  us,  do  you  remember? " 

"Yes." 

Remember!  It  had  been  the  gateway  through  which 
he  had  gained  a  glimpse  into  a  new  world — those 
days  that  were  tinged  with  the  delightful  suggestions 
of  dawn.  He  smiled  rather  grimly  at  the  question,  but 
she  could  not  see  his  face  very  well,  under  the  shadow 
of  his  wide  hat, 
"Has  Mowitza  ever  before  had  to  carry  double?" 

There  was  a  little  wait  after  her  question — perhaps 
he  was  trying  to  remember;  then  he  said : 

"Yes" 

She  wanted  to  ask  who,  and  under  what  circum 
stances,  but  someway  was  deterred  by  his  lock-and-key 
manner,  as  she  called  it.  She  rather  commended  her 
self  for  her  good  humor  under  its  influence,  and  won 
dered  that  she  only  felt  like  laughing  at  his  gruff  ness. 
With  any  other  person  she  would  have  felt  like  retali 
ating,  and  she  lay  there  looking  up  into  the  shadowy 
face  with  a  mocking  self-query  as  to  why  he  was  made 
an  exception  of. 

"Genesee!"  she  began,  after  one  of  those  long  spells 
of  silence;  and  then  the  utterance  of  the  name  sug 
gested  a  new  train  of  thought — "by  the  way,  is  your 
name  Genesee?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once- — was  he  trying  to  remem 
ber  that  also? 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  she  continued,  morf 


84  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

gently  than  was  usual  with  her.  "I  am  going  away 
soon ;  I  should  like  to  know  by  what  real  name  I  am 
to  remember  you  when  I  am  back  in  Kentucky  Is 
your  name  Jack  Genesee  ?" 

"No,"  he  said  at  last;  "Genesee  is  a  name  that  stuck 
to  me  from  some  mines  where  I  worked.,  south  of  this. 
If  I  went  back  to  them  I  would  be  called  Kootenai 
Jack,  perhaps,  because  I  came  from  here.  Plenty  ol 
men  are  known  by  names  out  here  that  would  not  be 
recognized  at  home,  if  they  have  a  home. 

"But  your  name  is  Jack"  she  persisted. 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Jack." 

But  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  give  any  further 
information  on  the  subject  that  just  then  was  of 
interest  to  her,  and  she  did  not  like  to  question  fur 
ther,  but  contented  herself  with  observing: 

"I  shan't  call  you  Genesee  any  more." 

"Just  as  you  like,  Miss." 

Again  came  that  crazy  desire  of  hers  to  laugh,  and 
although  she  kept  silent,  it  was  a  convulsive  silence — 
one  of  heaving  bosom  and  quivering  shoulders.  To 
hide  it,  she  moved  restlessly,  changing  her  position 
somewhat,  and  glancing  about  her. 

"Not  much  farther  to  go,"  she  remarked;  "won't 
they  be  surprised  to  find  you  carrying  me  into  camp 
like  this?  I  wonder  if  Betty  came  this  way,  or  if 
they  found  her — the  little  vixen!  There  is  only  one 
more  hill  to  cross  until  we  reach  camp — is  there  not  " 

"Only  one  more." 

"And  both  Mowitza  and  yourself  will  need  a  good 
rest  when  we  get  there,"  she  remarked.  "Your  arm 
must  feel  paralyzed.  Do  you  know  I  was  just  think 
ing  if  you  had  found  me  dead  in  that  gulch,  you  would 
have  had  to  carry  me  back  over  this  trail,  just  like 


UNDER  THE  CHINOOK  MOON         85 

this.  Ugh!  What  a  dismal  ride,  carrying  a  dead 
woman!" 

His  arm  closed  around  her  quickly,  and  he  drew  a 
deep  breath  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  in  a  terse  way,  as  if  through 
shut  teeth;  "perhaps  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  dismal, 
for  I  might  never  have  come  back.  I  might  have  staid 
there — with  you." 

She  could  see  his  eves  plainly  enough  when  he  looked 
at  her  like  that ;  even  the  shadows  could  not  cover  their 
warmth;  they  left  little  to  be  expressed  in  words,  and 
neither  attempted  any.  Her  face  turned  away  from 
him  a  little,  but  her  hand  slipped  into  the  clasp  of  his 
fingers,  and  so  they  rode  on  in  silence. 

The  brow  of  the  last  hill  was  reached.  Down  below 
them  could  be  seen  the  faint  light  from  the  camp- 
fire,  and  for  an  instant  Mowitza  was  halted  for 
a  breathing-spell  ere  she  began  the  descent.  The  girl 
glanced  down  toward  the  fire-light,  and  then  up  to  his 
face. 

"You  can  rest  now,"  she  said,  with  the  old  quizzical 
smile  about  her  lips,  even  while  her  fingers  closed  on  his 
own.  "There  is  the  camp;  alta  nika  wake  tsolo"  (now 
you  no  longer  wander  in  the  dark) . 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  his  face —  not 
even  at  the  pleasure  of  the  language  that  at  times  had 
seemed  a  tacit  bond  between  them.  He  only  looked 
at  her  in  the  curious  way  she  had  grown  accustomed  to 
in  him,  and  said : 

"The  light  down  there  is  for  you;  I  don't  belong  to 
it.  Just  try  and  remember  that  after — after  you  are 
safe  with  your  folks." 

"  I  shall  remember  a  great  deal,"  returned  the  girl  in 
her  independent  tone;  " among  other  things,  the  man 


86  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

who  brought  me  back  to  them.  Now,  why  don't  you 
say,  'Just  as  you  like,  Miss?'  You  ought  to — to  be 
natural." 

But  her  raillery  brought  no  more  words  from  him. 
His  face  had  again  its  sombre,  serious  look,  and  in 
silence  he  guided  Mowitza's  feet  down  toward  the  glow- 
light.  Once  a  puff  of  wind  sent  the  girl's  hair  blowing 
across  her  face,  and  he  smoothed  it  back  carefully  that 
he  might  see  her  eyes  in  the  moonlight;  but  the  half- 
caress  in  the  movement  was  as  if  given  to  a  child.  All 
the  quick  warmth  was  gone  from  his  eyes  and  speech 
after  that  one  comprehensive  outbreak,  and  the  girl 
was  puzzled  at  the  change  that  had  come  in  its  stead. 
He  was  so  gentle,  but  so  guarded — the  touch  even  of 
his  fingers  on  her  shoulder  was  tremulous,  as  if  with 
the  weight  of  resistance  forced  into  them.  She  did 
not  feel  like  laughing  any  longer,  after  they  began  the 
descent  of  the  hill.  His  manner  had  impressed  her 
too  strongly  with  the  feeling  of  some  change  to  come 
with  the  end  of  that  ride  and  the  eventful  moonlight 
night,  but  no  words  came  to  her;  but  her  hand  remained 
in  his  of  its  own  accord,  not  because  it  was  held  there, 
and  she  lay  very  quiet,  wondering  if  he  would  not 
speak — would  say  nothing  more  to  her  ere  they  joined 
the  others,  to  whom  they  were  moving  nearer  at  every 
step. 

He  did  not.  Once  his  fingers  closed  convulsively 
over  her  own.  His  eyes  straight  ahead  caused  her 
to  glance  in  that  direction,  and  she  saw  Tillie  and 
Hardy  clearly,  in  the  moonlight,  walking  together 
hand-in-hand  down  toward  the  glow  of  the  camp-fire. 
On  a  ledge  of  rock  that  jutted  out  clear  from  the 
shadowy  brush,  they  lingered  for  an  instant.  The  soft 
blue  light  and  the  silence  made  them  look  a  little  ghostly 


UNDER  THE  CHINOOK  MOON         87 

— a  tryst  of  spirits — as  the  tall  shoulders  drooped 
forward  with  circling  arms  into  which  Tillie  crept, 
reaching  upward  until  their  faces  met.  The  eyes  of 
those  two  on  horseback  turned  involuntarily  toward 
each  other  at  the  sight  of  those  married  lovers,  but 
there  was  no  echo  of  a  caress  in  their  own  movements, 
unless  it  was  the  caress  of  a  glance ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
more  they  were  within  speaking  distance  of  the 
camp. 

"We  are  here,"  he  said  slowly,  as  Hardy  and  his 
wife,  hearing  the  steps  of  the  horse,  hurried  toward 
them. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  whispered. 

It  was  their  good-bye  to  the  night. 

A  neigh  from  the  renegade  Betty  was  answered  by 
Mowitza,  and  in  an  instant  all  the  group  about  the 
camp  was  alive  to  the  fact  of  the  return.  But  the 
eager  questions  received  few  answers,  for  Genesee 
handed  Rachel  into  the  arms  of  Hardy,  and  said  to 
Tillie: 

"Don't  let  them  pester  her  with  questions  to-night, 
Mrs.  Hardy.  She  has  no  injuries,  I  guess,  only  she's 
used  up  and  needs  rest  badly.  I  found  her  ready  to 
faint  in  a  gulch  back  from  the  trail  about  three 
miles.  She'll  be  all  right  to-morrow,  I  reckon;  only 
see  that  she  gets  a  good  rest  and  isn't  bothered 
to-night." 

No  need  to  tell  them  that.  Their  gladness  at  her 
safe  return  made  them  all  consideration. 

Genesee  and  Mowitza  also  came  in  for  a  share  of  their 
solicitude,  and  the  former  for  a  quantity  of  thanks  that 
met  with  rather  brusque  response. 

"That's  nothing  to  thank  a  man  for,"  he  said  a  little 
impatiently,  as  the  Houghtons  were  contributing  their 


88  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

share.  "I  reckon  you  don't  know  much  about  the 
duties  of  a  scout  or  guide  in  this  country,  or  you  would 
know  it  was  my  business  to  go  for  the  lady — just  as 
it  would  be  to  hunt  up  lost  stock,  if  any  had  strayed 
off.  There  wasn't  much  of  a  trick  in  finding  her — 
Betty  left  too  clear  a  trail;  and  I  reckon  it's  time  we 
all  turned  in  to  sleep  instead  of  talking  about  it." 

In  the  morning  Rachel  awoke  refreshed  and  expect 
ant  in  a  vague  way.  The  incidents  of  the  night  before 
came  crowding  to  her  memory,  sending  the  blood  tin 
gling  through  her  veins  as  she  thought  of  their  meet 
ing;  of  the  ride;  of  those  few  significant  words  of  his, 
and  his  face  as  he  had  spoken.  She  wondered  at  her 
self  accepting  it  all  so  dreamily — as  if  in  a  lethargy. 
She  was  far  from  a  stupor  at  the  thought  of  it 
in  the  light  of  the  early  day,  as  she  watched  the  blue 
mists  rising  up,  up,  from  the  valleys.  Was  he 
watching  them,  too?  Was  he  thinking  as  she  was  of 
that  ride  and  its  revelations?  Would  he  meet  her 
again  with  that  queer,  distant  manner  of  his?  Would 
he— 

Her  ruminations  were  cut  short  by  Tillie,  who  thought 
to  awaken  her  with  the  proffer  of  a  cup  of  hot  coffee, 
and  who  was  surprised  to  find  her  awake. 

"Yes,  I  am  awake,  and  hungry,  too,"  she  said  briskly; 
"you  did  not  give  me  nearly  enough  to  eat  last  night. 
Is  breakfast  all  ready?  I  wonder  how  poor  Mowitza 
is  this  morning  after  her  heavy  load.  Say,  Tillie,  did 
we  look  altogether  riduculous? " 

" No,  you  did  not,"  said  Tillie  stoutly.  "It  was  won 
derfully  kind  of  him  to  bring  you  so  carefully.  I  always 
said  he  had  a  great  deal  of  heart  in  him;  but  he  is  gone, 
already." 

"Gone! — where?"     And  the  cup  of  coffee  was  set  m 


UNDER  THE  CHINOOK  MOON.  89 

the  grass  as  if  the  hunger  and  thirst  were  forgotten. 
"Where?" 

"We  don't  know,"  said  Tillie  helplessly.  "Clara 
says  back  to  his  tribe;  but  she  always  has  something 
like  that  to  say  of  him.  It's  the  queerest  thing;  even 
Hen  is  puzzled.  He  was  wakened  this  morning  about 
dawn  by  Genesee,  who  told  him  his  time  was  up  with 
the  party;  that  we  could  follow  the  trail  alone  well 
enough  now;  and  that  he  had  to  join  some  Indian 
hunters  away  north  of  this  to-night,  so  had  to  make 
an  early  start.  I  guess  he  forgot  to  speak  of  it  last 
night,  or  else  was  too  tired.  He  left  a  good-bye  for 
Hen  to  deliver  for  him  to  the  rest  of  us,  and  a 
klahowya  to  you." 

"Did  he?"  asked  the  girl  with  a  queer  little  laugh. 
"That  was  thoughtful  of  him.  May  his  hunting  be 
prosperous  and  his  findings  be  great." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Tillie  weakly,  "you  are  just  as  care 
less  about  it  as  Clara,  and  I  did  think  you  would  be 
sorry  to  lose  him.  I  am,  and  so  is  Hen;  but  evidently 
persuasions  were  of  no  avail.  He  said  he  could  not 
even  wait  for  breakfast;  that  he  should  have  gone  last 
night.  And  the  queerest  thing  about  it  is  that  he 
utterly  refused  any  money  from  Hen,  on  the  plea  that 
the  whole  affair  had  been  a  pleasure  ride,  not  work  at 
all;  and  so — he  is  gone." 

"And  so — he  is  gone,"  said  the  girl,  mimicking  her 
tone;  "what  a  tragical  manner  over  a  very  prosaic  cir 
cumstance!  Tillie,  my  child,  don't  be  so  impressible, 
or  I  shall  have  to  tell  Hen  that  our  guide  has  taken  your 
affections  in  lieu  of  greenbacks." 

"Rachel!" 

"Matilda!"  said  the  other  mildly,  looking  teas- 
ingly  over  the  rim  of  the  coffee-cup  she  was  slowly 


90  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

emptying.  "Don't  startle  me  with  that  tone  before 
breakfast,  and  don't  grieve  over  the  exodus  of  Mr 
Genesee  Jack.  I  shall  take  on  my  own  shoulders  the 
duties  of  guide  in  his  stead,  so  you  need  not  worry 
about  getting  home  safely;  and  in  the  meantime  I  am 
woefully  hungry." 

She  was  still  a  little  dizzy  as  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  very  stiff  and  sore  from  her  ride;  but,  joking  over 
her  rheumatic  joints,  she  limped  over  to  where  the 
breakfast  was  spread  on  a  flat  rock. 

"There  is  one  way  in  which  I  may  not  be  able  to 
take  Mr.  Genesee  Jack's  place,  in  your  estimation," 
she  said  lowly  to  Tillie  as  they  were  about  to  join  the 
others.  "I  shall  not  be  able  to  tell  you  stories  of  Indian 
conjurors  or  sing  you  Indian  love-songs.  I  can't  do 
anything  but  whistle." 

"Hen,  she  wasn't  the  least  bit  interested  about  him 
leaving  like  that!"  said  Tillie  confidentially  to  her 
husband  a  few  hours  later.  "She  never  does  seem  to 
have  much  feeling  for  anything;  but  after  he  brought 
her  back  so  carefully,  and  after  the  chumminess  there 
was  between  them  for  a  while,  one  would  naturally 
think— 

"Of  course  one  would,"  agreed  her  husband  laugh 
ingly,  "especially  if  one  was  an  affectionate,  match 
making  little  person  like  yourself,  and  altogether  a 
woman.  But  Rache—  "  and  his  glance  wandered  ahead 
to  where  the  slim  figure  of  the  girl  was  seen  stubbornly 
upright  on  Betty—  "well,  Rache  never  was  like  the 
rest  of  the  girls  at  home,  and  I  fancy  she  will  never  under 
stand  much  of  the  sentimental  side  of  life.  She  is  too 
level-headed  and  practical." 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  91 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    STORM AND    AFTER. 

Olapitski  yahka  ships. 

Two  weeks  later  storm-clouds  were  flying  low  over 
the  Kootenai  hills  and  chasing  shadows  over  the  faces 
of  two  equestrians  who  looked  at  each  other  in  comic 
dismay. 

"Jim,  we  are  lost ! "  stated  the  one  briefly. 

"I  allow  we  are,  Miss  Hardy,"  answered  the  other, 
a  boy  of  about  fifteen,  who  gazed  rather  dubiously  back 
over  the  way  they  had  come  and  ahead  where  a  half- 
blind  trail  led  up  along  the  mountain. 

"Suppose  we  pitch  pennies  to  see  what  direction  to 
take,"  suggested  the  girl;  but  the  boy  only  laughed. 

"Haven't  much  time  for  that,  Miss,"  he  answered. 
"Look  how  them  clouds  is  crowdin'  us;  we've  got  to 
hunt  cover  or  get  soaked.  This  trail  goes  somewhere; 
may  be  to  an  Injun  village.  I  allow  we'd  better  freeze 
to  it." 

"All  right.  We'll  allow  that  we  had,"  agreed  Miss 
Hardy.  "Betty,  get  around  here,  and  get  up  this  hill! 
I  know  every  step  is  taking  us  farther  from  the  ranch, 
but  this  seems  the  only  direction  in  which  a  trail  leads. 
Jim,  how  far  do  you  suppose  we  are  from 
home  ? ' ' 

'"Bout  fifteen  miles,  I  guess,"  said  the  boy,  looking 
blue. 

"And  we  haven't  found  the  lost  sheep?" 

"No,  we  haven't." 


92  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

' '  And  we  have  got  lost  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Jim,  I  don't  believe  we  are  a  howling  success  as 
sheep  farmers." 

"I  don't  care  a  darn  about  the  sheep  just  now," 
declared  Jim.  "What  I  want  to  know  is  where  we  are 
to  sleep  to-night." 

"Oh,  you  want  too  much,"  she  answered  briskly; 
"I  am  content  to  sit  up  all  night,  if  I  only  can  find  a 
dry  place  to  stay  in — do  you  hear  that?"  as  the  thunder 
that  had  grumbled  in  the  distance  now  sounded  its 
threats  close  above  them. 

"Yes,  I  hear  it,  and  it  means  business,  too.  I  wish 
we  were  at  the  end  of  this  trail,"  he  said,  urging  his  horse 
up  through  the  scrubby  growth  of  laurel. 

The  darkness  was  falling  so  quickly  that  it  was  not 
an  easy  matter  to  keep  the  trail;  and  the  wind  hiss 
ing  through  the  trees  made  an  open  space  a  thing  to 
wish  for.  Jim,  who  was  ahead,  gave  a  shout  as  he 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  where  the  trail 
crossed  it. 

"We're  right!"  he  yelled  that  she  might  hear  his 
voice  above  the  thunder  and  the  wind;  "there's  some 
sort  of  a  shanty  across  there  by  a  big  pond;  it's  half  a 
mile  away,  an'  the  rain's  a-comin' — come  on!" 

And  on  they  went  in  a  wild  run  to  keep  ahead  of  the 
rain-cloud  that  was  pelting  its  load  at  them  with  the 
force  of  hail.  The  girl  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  white 
sheen  of  a  lake  or  pond  ahead  of  them;  the  shanty  she 
did  not  wait  to  pick  out  from  the  gloom,  but  followed 
blindly  after  Jim,  at  a  breakneck  gait,  until  they  both 
brought  up  short,  in  the  shadow  of  a  cabin  in  the  edge 
of  the  timber  above  the  lake. 

Jump  off  quick  and  in  with  you ! ' '  called  Jim ;  and 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  93 

without  the  ceremony  of  knocking,   she  pushed  open 
the  door  and  dived  into  the  interior. 

It  was  almost  as  dark  as  night.  She  stumbled  around 
until  she  found  a  sort  of  bed  in  one  corner,  and  sat 
down  on  it,  breathless  and  wet.  The  rain  was  coming 
down  in  torrents,  and  directly  Jim,  with  the  saddles 
in  his  arms,  came  plunging  in,  shaking  himself  like  a 
water-spaniel. 

"Great  guns!  But  it's  comin'  down  solid,"  he  gasped; 
' '  where  are  you  ? ' ' 

"Here — I've  found  a  bed,  so  somebody  lives  here. 
Have  you  any  matches?" 

"I  allow  I  have,"  answered  Jim,  "if  they  only  ain't 
wet — no,  by  George,  they're  all  right." 

The  brief  blaze  of  the  match  showed  him  the  fire 
place  and  a  pile  of  wood  beside  it,  and  a  great  osier 
basket  of  broken  bark.  "Say,  Miss  Hardy,  we've 
struck  great  luck,"  he  announced  while  on  his  knees, 
quickly  starting  a  fire  and  fanning  it  into  a  blaze  with 
his  hat;  "I  wonder  who  lives  here  and  where 
they  are.  Stickin'  to  that  old  trail  was  a  pay  streak 
—hey?" 

In  the  blaze  of  the  fire  the  room  assumed  quite  a 
respectable  appearance.  It  was  not  a  shanty,  as  Jim 
had  at  first  supposed,  but  a  substantial  log-cabin,  fur 
nished  in  a  way  to  show  constant  and  recent  occupation. 

A  table  made  like  a  wide  shelf  jutted  from  the  wall 
under  the  one  square  window;  a  bed  and  two 
chairs  that  bespoke  home  manufacture  were  covered 
by  bear-skins;  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed  was  a 
buffalo-robe;  and  a  large  locked  chest  stood  against 
the  wall.  Beside  the  fire-place  was  a  cupboard  with 
cooking  and  table  utensils,  and  around  the  walls  hung 
trophies  of  the  hunt.  A  bow  and  quiver  of  arrows  and 


04  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

a  knotted  silken  sash  hung  on  one  wooden  peg,  and 
added  to  a  pair  of  moccasins  in  the  corner,  gave  an 
Indian  suggestion  to  the  occupancy  of  the  cabin,  but 
the  furnishing  in  general  was  decidedly  that  of  a  white 
person;  to  the  rafters  were  fastened  some  beaver-paws 
and  bear-claws,  and  the  skins  of  three  rattlesnakes  were 
pendent  against  the  wall. 

"Well,  this  is  a  queer  go!  ain't  it?  remarked  Jim 
as  he  walked  around  taking  a  survey  of  the  room. 
"I'd  like  to  know  who  it  all  belongs  to.  Did  you  ever 
hear  folks  about  here  speak  of  old  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  answered  the  girl,  sitting  down  on 
the  buffalo-robe  before  the  fire,  to  dry  her  shoulders  at 
the  blaze. 

"Well,  I  believe  this  is  his  cabin,  and  we  are  about 
ten  mile  from  home,"  decided  the  boy.  "I  didn't 
think  we'd  strayed  as  far  north  as  Scot's  Mountain,  but 
I  allow  this  is  it." 

"Well,  I  wish  he  would  come  home  and  get  supper," 
said  the  girl,  easily  adapting  herself  to  any  groove 
into  which  she  happened  to  fall;  "but  perhaps  we  should 
have  sent  him  word  of  our  visit.  What  did  you  do  with 
the  horses,  Jim?" 

"Put  'em  in  a  shed  at  the  end  o'  the  house — a 
bang-up  place,  right  on  the  other  side  o'  this  fire-place. 
Whoever  lives  here  keeps  either  a  norse  or  a 
cow." 

"I  hope  it's  a  cow,  and  that  there's  some  milk  to 
be  had.  Jimmy,  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  to  eat  in 
that  cupboard." 

"I've  been  thinkin'  o'  that  myself,"  said  Jim  in  answer 
to  that  insinuating  speech. 

"Suppose  you  do  something  besides  think — suppose 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER,  95 

you   look,"   suggested   the   more  unscrupulous   of  the 
foragers ;  "  I'm  hungry. ' ' 

"So  am  I,"  acknowledged  her  confederate;  "you  an* 
me  is  most  alike  about  our  eatin',  ain't  we?  Mrs. 
Houghton  said  yesterday  I  had  a  terrible  appe 
tite." 

The  boy  at  once  began  making  an  examination  of 
the  larder,  wondering,  as  he  did  so,  what  the  girl  was 
laughing  at. 

The  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents  through  the 
blackness  of  the  night;  now  and  then  the  lightning 
would  vie  with  the  fire  in  lighting  up  the  room,  while 
the  thunder  seemed  at  home  in  that  valley  of  the  moun 
tain,  for  its  volleys  of  sound  and  their  echoes  never 
ceased. 

Small  wonder  that  anyone's  house  would  seem  a 
home  to  the  two,  or  that  they  would  have  no  comptmc- 
tion  in  taking  possession  of  it. 

"There's  coffee  here  somewhere,  I  can  smell  it," 
announced  Jim;  "an'  here's  rice  an'  crackers,  an'  corn- 
meal,  an'  dried  raspberries,  an'  potatoes,  an' — yes,  here's 
the  coffee!  Say,  Miss  Hardy,  we'll  have  a  regular 
feast!" 

"I  should  say  so!"  remarked  that  lady,  eyeing  Jim's 
"find"  approvingly;  "I  think  there  is  a  bed  of  coals  here 
at  this  side  of  the  fire-place  that  will  just  fit  about  six 
of  those  potatoes — can  you  eat  three,  Jim?" 

"Three  will  do  if  they're  big  enough,"  said  Jim,  look 
ing  dubiously  at  the  potatoes;  "but  these  ain't  as  good- 
sized  as  some  I've  seen." 

"Then  give  me  two  more;  that  makes  five  for  you  and 
three  for  me." 

Hadn't  you  better  shove  in  a  couple  more?"  asked 
Jim  with  a  dash  of  liberality     "You  know  MacDougall 


96  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

may  come  back  hungry,  an'  then  we  can  spare  him  two 
— that  makes  ten  to  roast." 

"Ten  it  is!"  said  the  girl,  burying  two  more  in  the 
ashes  as  the  share  of  their  host.  "Jim,  see  if  there  is 
any  water  in  here  to  make  coffee  with." 

4 'Yes,  a  big  jar  full,"  reported  the  steward;  "an'  here 
is  a  little  crock  half  full  of  eggs — prairie-chicken,  I  guess 
— say,  can  you  make  a  pone?" 

"I  think  I  can;"  and  the  cook  at  once  rolled  up  the 
sleeves  of  her  riding-dress,  and  Jimmy  brought  out 
the  eggs  and  some  bits  of  salt  meat — evidently  bear- 
meat — that  was  hung  from  the  ceiling  of  the  cupboard; 
at  once  there  began  a  great  beating  of  eggs  and  stir 
ring  up  of  a  corn  pone;  some  berries  were  set  on  the 
coals  to  stew  in  a  tin-cup,  the  water  put  to  boil  for 
the  coffee,  and  an  iron  skillet  with  a  lid  utilized 
as  an  oven;  and  the  fragrance  of  the  preparing 
eatables  filled  the  little  room  and  prompted  the  hungry 
lifting  of  lids  many  times  ere  the  fire  had  time  to  do 
its  work. 

"That  pone's  a  'dandy!'  "  said  Jim,  taking  a  peep  at 
it;  "it's  gettin'  as  brown  as — as  your  hair;  an'  them 
berries  is  done,  an'  ain't  it  time  to  put  in  the  coffee?" 

Acting  on  this  hint,  the  coffee,  beaten  into  a  froth 
with  an  egg,  had  the  boiling  water  poured  over  it,  and 
set  bubbling  and  aromatic  on  the  red  coals. 

"You  mayn't  be  much  use  to  find  strayed-off  stock," 
said  Jim  deliberately,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  as  he 
watched  the  apparent  ease  with  which  the  girl  managed 
her  primitive  cooking  apparatus;  "but  I  tell  you — you 
ain't  no  slouch  when  it  comes  to  gettin'  grub  ready, 
and  gettin'  it  quick." 

"Better  keep  your  compliments  until  you  have 
tried  to  eat  some  of  the  cooking,"  suggested  Miss 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  97 

Hardy,  on  her  knees  before  the  fire.     "I  believe  the 
pone  is  done." 

"Then  we'll  dish-up  in  double-quick,"  said  Jin?, 
handing  her  two  tin  pans  for  the  pone  and  potatoes. 
"We'll  have  to  set  the  berries  on  in  the  tin — by  George! 
what's  that?" 

"That"  was  the  neigh  of  Betty  in  the  shed  by  the 
chimney,  and  an  answering  one  from  somewhere  out 
in  the  darkness.  Through  the  thunder  and  the  rain 
they  had  heard  no  steps,  but  Jim's  eyes  were  big  with 
suspense  as  he  listened. 

"My  horse  has  broke  loose  from  the  shed,"  he  said 
angrily,  reaching  for  his  hat;  "and  how  the  dickens 
I'm  to  find  him  in  this  storm  I  don't  know." 

"Don't  be  so  quick  to  give  yourself  a  shower-bath," 
suggested  the  girl  on  the  floor;  "he  won't  stray  far  off, 
and  may  be  glad  to  come  back  to  the  shed;  and  then 
again,"  she  added,  laughing,  "it  may  be  MacDougall." 
Jim  looked  rather  blankly  at  the  supper  on  the 
hearth  and  the  girl  who  seemed  so  much  at  home  on 
the  buffalo-robe. 

"By  George!  it  might  be,"  he  said  slowly;  and  for 
the  first  time  the  responsibility  of  their  confiscations 
loomed  up  before  him.  "Say,"  he  added  uneasily, 
"have  you  any  money?" 

"Money?"  she  repeated  inquiringly;  and  then  seeing 
the  drift  of  his  thoughts,  "Oh,  no,  I  haven't  a  cent." 

"They  say  MacDougall  is  an  old  crank,"  he  insin 
uated,  looking  at  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  to 
see  what  effect  the  statement  would  have  on  her.  But 
she  only  smiled  in  an  indifferent  way.  "An'— an'  ef  he 
wants  the  money  cash  down  for  this  lay-out" — and  he 
glanced  comprehensively  over  the  hearth — "well,  I 

don't  know  what  to  say." 
7  J 


98  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"That's  easily  managed,"  said  the  girl  coolly;  "you 
can  leave  your  horse  in  pawn." 

"An'  foot  it  home  ten  miles?— not  if  I  know  it!" 
burst  out  Jim;  "an'  besides  it's  Hardy's  horse." 

"Well,  then,  leave  the  saddle,  and  ride  home  bare 
back." 

"I  guess  not!"  protested  Jim,  with  the  same  aggres 
sive  tone;  "that's  my  own  saddle." 

After  this  unanswerable  reason,  there  was  an  expect 
ant  silence  in  the  room  for  a  little  while,  that  was 
finally  broken  by  Jim  saying  ruefully: 

"If  that  is  MacDougall,  he'll  have  to  have  them  two 
potatoes." 

Rachel's  risible  tendencies  were  not  proof  against 
this  final  fear  of  Jim's,  and  her  laughter  drowned  his 
grumblings,  and  also  footsteps  without,  of  which  neither 
heard  a  sound  until  the  door  was  flung  open  and  a  man 
walked  into  the  room. 

Jim  looked  at  him  with  surprised  eyes,  and  managed 
to  stammer,  "How  are  you?"  for  the  man  was  so  far 
from  his  idea  of  old  Davy  MacDougall  that  he  was 
staggered. 

But  Miss  Hardy  only  looked  up,  laughing,  from  her 
position  by  the  fire,  and  drew  the  coffee-pot  from  the 
coals  with  one  hand,  while  she  reached  the  other  to  the 
new-comer. 

"Klahowya!  Mr.  Jack,"  she  said  easily;  "got  wet, 
didn't  you?  You  are  just  in  time  for  supper." 

"You!"  was  all  he  said;  and  Jim  thought  they  were 
both  crazy,  from  the  way  the  man  crossed  the  room 
to  her  and  took  her  one  hand  in  both  his  as  if  he  never 
intended  letting  it  go  or  saying  another  word,  content 
only  to  hold  her  hand  and  look  at  her.  And  Miss 
Rachel  Hardy's  eyes  were  not  idle  either. 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  99 

"Yes,  of  course  it's  I,"  she  said,  slipping  her  hand 
away  after  a  little,  and  dropping  her  face  that  had 
flushed  pink  in  the  firelight;  "I  don't  look  like  a  ghost, 
do  I  ?  You  would  not  find  a  ghost  at  such  prosaic  work 
as  getting  supper." 

"Getting  supper?"  he  said,  stepping  back  a  bit  and 
glancing  around.  For  the  first  time  he  seemed  to 
notice  Jim,  or  have  any  remembrance  of  anything  but 
the  girl  herself.  "You  mean  that  you  two  have  been 
getting  supper  alone?" 

"Yes,  Jim  and  L  Mr.  Jack,  this  is  my  friend  Jim, 
from  the  ranch.  We  tried  to  guide  each  other  after 
sheep,  and  both  got  lost;  and  as  you  did  not  get  here 
in  time  to  cook  supper,  of  course  we  had  to  do  it 
alone." 

"But  I  mean  was  there  no  one  else  here?" — -he  still 
looked  a  little  dazed  and  perplexed,  his  eyes  roving 
uneasily  about  the  room — "I— a — a  young  Indian — " 

"No!"  interrupted  the  girl  eagerly.  "Do  you  mean 
the  Indian  boy  who  brought  me  that  black  bear's  skin? 
I  knew  you  had  sent  it,  though  he  would  not  say  a  word 
— looked  at  me  as  if  he  did  not  understand  Chinook 
when  I  spoke." 

"May  be  he  didn't  understand  yours,"  remarked 
Jimmy,  edging  past  her  to  rake  the  potatoes  out  of  the 
ashes. 

"But  he  wasn't  here  when  we  came,"  continued  Miss 
Hardy.  "The  house  was  deserted  and  in  darkness  when 
we  found  it,  just  as  the  storm  came  on  in  earnest." 

"And  the  fire?"  said  Genesee. 

"There  was  none,"  answered  the  boy,  "The  ashes 
were  stone-cold,  I  noticed  it;  so  your  Injun  hadn't 
had  any  fire  all  day." 

"All  day!"  repeated  the  man,  going  to  the  door  and 


100  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

looking  out.  "That  means  a  long  tramp,  and  to 
night — 

"And  to-night  is  a  bad  one  for  a  tramp  back,"  added 
Jim. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Genesee,  "that's  what  I  was  thinking." 

If  there  was  a  breath  of  relief  in  the  words,  both 
were  too  occupied  with  the  potatoes  in  the  ashes  to 
notice  it.  He  shut  the  door  directly  as  the  wind  sent 
a  gust  of  rain  inside,  and  then  turned  again  to  the 
pirates  at  the  fire-place. 

"What  did  you  find  to  cook?"  he  asked,  glancing  at 
the  "lay-out,"  as  Jim  called  it.  "I  haven't  been  here 
since  yesterday,  and  am  afraid  you  didn't  find  much — 
any  fresh  meat?" 

Miss  Hardy  shook  her  head. 

"Salt  meat  and  eggs,  that's  all,"  she  said. 

"Not  by  a  long  shot  it  ain't,  Mr. — Mr  Jack,"  said 
Jim,  contradicting  her  flatly.  "She's  got  a  first-class 
supper;  an'  by  George!  she  can  make  more  out  o'  nothin' 
than  any  woman  I  ever  seen."  In  his  enthusiasm 
over  Rachel  he  was  unconscious  of  the  slur  on  their 
host's  larder.  "I  never  knowed  she  was  such  a  rattlin' 
cook!" 

"I  know  I  have  never  been  given  credit  for  my  every 
day,  wearing  qualities,"  said  the  girl,  without  looking 
up  from  the  eggs  she  was  scrambling  in  the  bake-oven 
of  a  few  minutes  before.  The  words  may  have  been  to 
Jim,  but  by  the  man's  eyes  he  evidently  thought  they 
were  at  Genesee — such  a  curious,  pained  look  as  that 
with  which  he  watched  her  every  movement,  every 
curve  of  form  and  feature,  that  shone  in  the  light  of  the 
fire.  Once  she  saw  the  look,  and  her  own  eyes  dropped 
under  it  for  a  moment,  but  that  independence  of  hers 
would  not  let  it  be  for  long. 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  101 


"Do  you  want  a  share  of  our  supper ?V, :sfrf!  j 
looking  up  at  him  quizzically. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  but  his  steady,  curious- gaze* &t 
her  showed  that  his  thoughts  were  not  of  the  question 
or  answer. 

Not  so  Jim.  That  young  gentleman  eyed  dubiously 
first  the  lay-out  and  then  Genesee's  physique,  trying 
to  arrive  at  a  mental  estimate  of  his  capacity  and  the 
probable  division  of  the  pone  and  potatoes. 

"How  about  that  saddle,  now,  Jim?"  asked  the  girl. 
Whereupon  Jim  began  a  pantomime  enjoining  silence, 
back  of  the  chair  of  the  man,  who  appeared  more  like 
a  guest  than  host — perhaps  because  it  was  so  hard  to 
realize  that  it  was  really  his  hearth  where  that  girl 
sat  as  if  at  home.  She  noticed  his  preoccupation,  and 
remarked  dryly: 

"You  really  don't  deserve  a  share  of  our  cooking 
after  the  way  you  deserted  us  before! — not  even  a 
klahowya  when  you  took  the  trail." 

"You're  right,  I  reckon;  but  don't  you  be  the  one 
to  blame  me  for  that,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  that 
made  the  command  a  sort  of  plea;  and  Miss  Hardy 
industriously  gave  her  attention  to  the  supper. 

"It's  all  ready,"  announced  Jim,  as  he  juggled  a  pan 
of  hot  pone  from  one  hand  to  another  on  the  way  to 
the  table.  "Ouch!  but  it's  hot!  Say,  wouldn't  some 
fresh  butter  go  great  with  this!" 

"Didn't  you  find  any?"  asked  Genesee,  waking  to  the 
practical  things  of  life  at  Jim's  remark. 

"Find  any?  No!  Is  there  any?"  asked  that  little 
gourmand,  with  hope  and  doubt  chasing  each  other  over 
his  rather  thin  face. 

"I  don't  know — there  ought  to  be; "  and  lifting  a  loose 
board  in  the  floor  by  the  cupboard,  he  drew  forth  a 


102  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


reed  basket,  and  on  a  smooth  stone  in 
the  bottom  lay  a  large  piece  of.  yellow  butter,  around 
whic'K  Jim  -performed  a  sort  of  dance  of  adoration. 

What  a  supper  that  was,  in  the  light  of  the  pitch- 
pine  and  the  fierce  accompaniment  of  the  outside 
tempest  !  Jim  vowed  that  never  were  there  potatoes  so 
near  perfection,  in  their  brown  jackets  and  their  steam 
ing,  powdery  flakes;  and  the  yellow  pone,  and  the 
amber  coffee,  and  the  cool  slices  of  butter  that  Gene- 
see  told  them  was  from  an  Indian  village  thirty  miles 
north.  And  to  the  table  were  brought  such  tremendous 
appetites!  at  least  by  the  cook  and  steward  of  the 
party.  And  above  all,  what  a  delicious  atmosphere  of 
unreality  pervaded  the  whole  thing!  Again  and  again 
Genesee's  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "Can  it  be  you?"  and 
grew  warm  as  her  quizzical  glances  told  him  it  could 
be  no  one  else. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  and  the  storm  continued,  he 
brought  in  armfuls  of  wood  from  the  shed  without, 
and  in  the  talk  round  the  fire  his  manner  grew  more 
assured  —  more  at  home  with  the  surroundings  that  were 
yet  his  own.  Long  they  talked,  until  Jim,  unable  to 
think  of  any  more  questions  to  ask  of  silver-mining  and 
bear-hunting,  slipped  down  in  the  corner,  with  his  head 
on  a  saddle,  and  went  fast  asleep. 

"I'll  sit  up  and  keep  the  fire  going,"  said  Genesee, 
at  this  sign  of  the  late  hour;  "but  you  had  better  get 
what  rest  you  can  on  that  bunk  there  —  you'll  need  it 
for  your  ride  in  the  morning." 

"In  the  morning!"  repeated  the  girl  coolly;  ''that 
sounds  as  if  you  are  determined  our  visit  shall  end  as 
soon  as  possible,  Mr.  Genesee  Jack." 

"Don't  talk  like  that!"  he  said,  looking  across  at 
her;  "you  don't  know  anything  about  it."  And  getting 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  103 

up  hastily,  he  walked  back  and  forward  across  the 
room;  once  stopping  suddenly,  as  if  with  some  deter 
mination  to  speak,  and  then,  as  she  looked  up  at  him, 
his  courage  seemed  to  vanish,  and  he  turned  his  face 
away  from  her  and  walked  to  the  door. 

The  storm  had  stilled  its  shrieks,  and  was  dying 
away  in  misty  moans  down  the  dip  in  the  hills,  taking 
the  rain  with  it.  The  darkness  was  intense  as  he  held 
the  door  open  and  looked  into  the  black  vault,  where 
not  a  glimmer  of  a  star  or  even  a  gray  cloud  could  be 
seen. 

"It's  much  nicer  in-doors,"  decided  Miss  Hardy,  mov 
ing  her  chair  against  the  chimney-piece,  and  propping 
herself  there  to  rest. 

"Jim  had  better  lie  on  the  bed,  he  is  so  sleepy,  and 
I  am  not  at  all  so;  this  chair  is  good  enough  for  me,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

He  picked  the  sleeping  boy  up  without  a  word,  and 
laid  him  on  the  couch  of  bear-skins  without  waking 
him. 

"There  isn't  much  I  do  mind,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
back  to  the  fire-place;  "that  is,  if  you  are  only  com 
fortable." 

"I  am — very  much  so,"  she  answered,  "and  would 
be  entirely  so  if  you  only  seemed  a  little  more  at  home. 
As  it  is,  I  have  felt  all  evening  as  if  we  are  upsetting 
your  peace  of  mind  in  some  way — not  as  if  we  are 
unwelcome,  mind  you,  but  just  as  if  you  are  worried 
about  us." 

"That  so?"  he  queried,  not  looking  at  her;  "that's 
curious.  I  didn't  know  I  was  looking  so,  and  I'm  sure 
you  and  the  boy  are  mighty  welcome  to  my  cabin  or 
anything  in  the  world  I  can  do  for  you." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  heartiness  of  the  man's 


104  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

words,  and  she  smiled  her  gratitude  from  the  niche  in 
the  corner  where,  with  her  back  toward  the  blaze,  only 
one  side  of  her  face  was  outlined  by  the  light. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  amicably;  "you  can  do  some 
thing  for  me  just  now — open  the  door  for  a  little. while; 
the  room  seems  close  with  being  shut  up  so  tight  from 
the  rain — and  then  make  yourself  comfortable  there 
on  that  buffalo-robe  before  the  fire.  I  remember  your 
lounging  habits  in  the  camp,  and  a  chair  doesn't  seem 
to  quite  suit  you.  Yes,  that  looks  much  better,  as  if  you 
were  at  home  again." 

Stretched  on  the  robe,  with  her  saddle  on  which  to 
prop  up  his  shoulders,  he  lay,  looking  in  the  red  coals, 
as  if  forgetful  of  her  speech  or  herself.  But  at  last  he 
repeated  her  words: 

"At  home  again!  Do  you  know  there's  a  big  lot  of 
meaning  in  those  words,  Miss,  especially  to  a  man 
who  hasn't  known  what  home  meant  for  years?  and 
to-night,  with  white  people  in  my  cabin  and  a  white 
woman  to  make  things  look  natural,  I  tell  you  it  makes 
me  remember  what  home  used  to  be,  in  a  way  I  have 
not  experienced  for  many  a  day." 

"Then  I'm  glad  I  strayed  off  into  the  storm  and 
your  cabin,"  said  the  girl  promptly;  "because  a  man 
shouldn't  forget  his  home  and  home-folks,  especially 
if  the  memories  would  be  good  ones.  People  need  all 
the  good  memories  they  can  keep  with  them  in  this 
world;  they're  a  sort  of  steering  apparatus  in  a  life-boat, 
and  help  a  man  make  a  straight  journey  toward  his 
future." 

"That's  so,"  he  said,  and  put  his  hand  up  over  his 
eyes  as  if  to  shield  them  from  the  heat  of  the  fire.  He 
was  lying  full  in  the  light,  while  she  was  in  the 
shadow.  He  could  scarcely  see  her  features,  with  her 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER  105 

head  drawn  back  against  the  wall  like  that.  And 
the  very  fact  of  knowing  herself  almost  unseen — a 
voice,  only,  speaking  to  him — gave  her  courage  to  say 
things  as  she  could  not  have  said  them  at  another 
time. 

''Do  you  know,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  there  watching 
him  with  his  eyes  covered  by  his  hand — "do  you  know 
that  once  or  twice  when  we  have  been  together  I  have 
wished  I  was  a  man,  that  I  could  say  some  things  to 
you  that  a  woman  or  a  girl — that  is,  most  girls — can't 
say  very  well?  One  of  the  things  is  that  I  should  be 
glad  to  hear  of  you  getting  out  of  this  life  here ;  there  is 
something  wrong  about  it  to  you — something  that 
doesn't  suit  you;  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  can 
see  you  are  not  the  man  you  might  be — and  ought  to 
be.  I've  thought  of  it  often  since  I  saw  you  last,  and 
sometimes — yes — I've  been  sorry  for  my  ugly  manner 
toward  you.  White  people,  when  they  meet  in  these 
out-of-the-way  places  in  the  world,  ought  to  be  as  so 
many  brothers  and  sisters  to  each  other;  and  there 
were  times,  often,  when  I  might  have  helped  you  to 
feel  at  home  among  us — when  I  might  have  been  more 
kind." 

"More  kind?     Good  God!"  whispered  the  man. 

"And  I  made  up  my  mind,"  continued  the  girl  cour 
ageously,  "that  if  I  ever  saw  you  again,  I  was  going  tc 
speak  plainly  to  you  about  yourself  and  the  dissatisfac 
tion  with  yourself  that  you  spoke  of  that  day  in  the 
laurel  thicket.  I  don't  know  what  the  cause  of  it  is, 
and  I  don't  want  to,  but  if  it  is  any  wrong  that  you've 
done  in — in  the  past,  a  bad  way  to  atone  is  by  bury 
ing  oneself  alive,  along  with  all  energy  and  ambition. 
Now,  you  may  think  me  presuming  to  say  these  things 
to  you  like  this;  but  I've  been  wishing  somebody  would 


106  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

say  them  to  you,  and  there  seems  no  one  here  to  do  it 
but  me,  and  so — 

She  stopped,  not  so  much  because  she  had  finished 
as  because  she  felt  herself  failing  utterly  in  saying  the 
things  she  had  really  intended  to  say.  It  all  sounded 
very  flat  and  commonplace  in  her  own  ears — not  at  all 
the  words  to  carry  any  influence  to  anyone,  and  so  she 
stopped  helplessly  and  looked  at  him. 

"I'm  glad  it  is  you  that  says  them,"  he  answered, 
still  without  looking  at  her,  "because  you've  got  the 
stuff  in  you  for  such  a  good,  square  friend  to  a  man — 
the  sort  of  woman  a  person  could  go  to  in  trouble, 
even  if  they  hadn't  the  passport  of  a  saint  to  take  with 
them ;  and  I  wish— I  wish  I  could  tell  you  to-night  some 
thing  of  the  things  that  you've  started  on.  If  I  could — " 
he  stopped  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  any  other  girl — "  she  began  in  a  depre 
cating  tone ;  but  he  dropped  his  hand  from  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her. 

"You're  not  like  other  girls,"  he  said  with  a  great 
fondness  in  his  eyes,  "and  that's  just  the  reason  I  feel 
like  telling  you  all.  You're  not  like  any  girl  I've  ever 
known.  I've  often  felt  like  speaking  to  you  as  if  you 
were  a  boy — an  almighty  aggravatin'  slip  of  a  boy  some 
times;  and  yet — ' 

He  lay  silent  for  a  little  while,  so  long  that  the  girl 
wondered  if  he  had  forgotten  what  he  was  to  try  to  tell 
her.  The  warmth  after  the  rain  had  made  them  neglect 
the  fire,  and  its  blaze  had  dropped  low  and  lower,  until 
she  was  entirely  in  the  shadow — only  across  the  hearth 
and  his  form  did  the  light  fall. 

"And  yet,"  he  continued,  as  if  there  had  been  no 
break  in  his  speech,  "there's  been  many  a  night  I've 
dreamed  of  seeing  you  sit  here  by  this  fire-place  just 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  107 

as  I've  seen  you  to-night;  just  as  bright  like  and  con 
tented,  as  if  all  the  roughness  and  poorness  of  it  was 
nothing  to  you,  or  else  a  big  joke  for  you  to  make  fun 
of;  and  then— well,  at  such  times  you  didn't  seem  like 
a  boy,  but — " 

Again  he  stopped. 

"Never  mind  what  I'm  like,"  suggested  the  girl; 
that  doesn't  matter.  I  guess  everyone  seems  a  different 
person  with  different  people;  but  you  wanted  to  tell 
me  something  of  yourself,  didn't  you? " 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at,"  he  answered, 
"but  it  isn't  easy.  I've  got  to  go  back  so  far  to  start 
at  the  beginning — -back  ten  years,  to  reckon  up  mis 
takes.  That's  a  big  job,  my  girl — my  girl." 

The  lingering  repetition  of  those  words  opened  the 
girl's  eyes  wide  with  a  sudden  memory  of  that  moon 
lit  night  in  the  gulch.  Then  she  had  not  fancied  those 
whispered  words!  they  had  been  uttered,  and  by  his 
voice;  and  those  fancied  tears  of  Tillie's,  and — 
the  kisses ! 

So  thick  came  those  thronging  memories,  that  she 
did  not  notice  his  long,  dreamy  silence.  She  was  think 
ing  of  that  night,  and  all  the  sweet,  vague  suggestion 
in  it  that  had  vanished  with  the  new  day.  She  was 
comparing  its  brief  charm  with  this  meeting  of  to-night 
that  was  ignoring  it  so  effectually;  that  was  as  the 
beginning  of  a  new  knowledge  of  each  other,  with  the 
commonplace  and  practical  as  a  basis. 

Her  reverie  was  broken  sharply  by  the  sight  of  a 
form  that  suddenly,  silently,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
Her  first  impulse  of  movement  or  speech  was  checked 
as  the  faint,  flickering  light  shifted  across  the  visage 
of  the  new-comer,  and  she  recognized  the  Indian  girl 
who  had  hidden  behind  the  ponies.  A  smile  was  on 


108  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

the  dark  face  as  she  saw  Genesee  lying  there,  asleep  he 
must  have  looked  from  the  door,  and  utterly  oblivious 
of  her  entrance.  Her  soft  moccasins  left  no  sound  as 
she  crossed  the  floor  and  dropped  down  beside  him, 
laying  one  arm  about  his  throat.  He  clasped  the  hand 
quickly  and  opened  his  half -shut  eyes.  Did  he,  for 
an  instant,  mistake  it  for  another  hand  that  had  slipped 
into  his  that  one  night?  Whatever  he  thought,  his 
face  was  like  that  of  death  as  he  met  the  eyes  of  the 
Indian  girl. 

"Talapa!"  he  muttered,  and  his  fingers  closing  on 
her  wrist  must  have  twisted  it  painfully,  by  the  quick 
change  in  her  half-Indian,  half-French  face.  He  seemed 
hardly  conscious  of  it.  Just  then  he  looked  at  her  as 
if  she  was  in  reality  that  Indian  deity  of  the  inferno 
from  whom  her  name  was  derived. 

"Hyak  nika  kelapie!"  (I  returned  quickly),  she 
whined,  as  if  puzzled  at  her  reception,  and  darting  furi 
ous  sidelong  glances  from  the  black  eyes  that  had  the 
width  between  them  that  is  given  to  serpents.  "Nah!" 
she  ejaculated  angrily,  as  no  answer  was  made  to  her; 
and  freeing  her  hand,  she  rose  to  her  feet.  She  had  not 
once  seen  the  white  girl  in  the  shadow.  Coming  from 
the  darkness  into  the  light,  her  eyes  were  blinded  to  all 
but  the  one  plainly  seen  figure.  But  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  and  Genesee  with  her,  Rachel  stooped  to  the  pile 
of  wood  beside  her,  and  throwing  some  bits  of  pine  on 
the  fire,  sent  the  sparks  flying  upward,  and  a  second 
later  a  blaze  of  light  flooded  the  room. 

The  action  was  a  natural,  self-possessed  one — it  took 
a  great  deal  to  upset  Miss  Hardy's  equanimity — and 
she  coolly  sat  down  again  facing  the  astonished  Indian 
girl  and  Genesee;  but  her  face  was  very  white,  though 
she  said  not  a  word. 


There  is  no   need  for  me  to  try  to  remember  the  beginning,  is 
there?"     Page  IOQ. 


THE  STORM  — AND  AFTER.  109 

"There  is  no  need  for  me  to  try  to  remember  the 
beginning,  is  there,"  said  Genesee  bitterly,  looking  at 
her  with  sombre,  moody  eyes,  "since  the  end  has  told 
its  own  story?  This  is — my — my — 

Did  he  say  wife?  She  never  could  be  quite  sure  of 
the  word,  but  she  knew  he  tried  to  say  it. 

His  voice  sounded  smothered,  unnatural,  as  it  had 
that  day  in  the  laurel  thicket  when  he  had  spoken  of 
locking  himself  out  from  a  heaven.  She  understood 
what  he  meant  now. 

"No,  there  is  no  need,"  she  said,  as  quietly  as  she 
could,  though  her  heart  seemed  choking  her  and  her 
hands  trembled.  "I  hope  all  will  come  right  for  you 
sometime,  and — I  understand,  now." 

Did  she  really  understand,  even  then,  or  know  the 
moral  lie  the  man  had  told,  the  lie  that,  in  his  abase 
ment,  he  felt  was  easier  to  have  her  believe  than  the 
truth? 

Talapa  stood  drying  her  moccasins  at  the  fire,  as  if 
not  understanding  their  words;  but  the  slow,  cunning 
smile  crept  back  to  her  lips  as  she  recognized  the  white 
girl,  and  no  doubt  remembered  that  she  and  Genesee 
had  ridden  together  that  day  at  the  camp. 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  walked  to  the  door,  after 
her  kindly  words,  putting  his  hand  out  ahead  of  him 
in  a  blind  sort  of  way,  and  then  stopped,  saying  to  her 
gently : 

"Get  what  rest  you  can — try  to,  anyway;  you  will 
need  it."  And  then,  with  some  words  in  Indian  to 
Talapa,  he  went  out  into  the  night. 

His  words  to  Talapa  were  in  regard  to  their  guests' 
comfort,  for  that  silent  individual  at  once  began  prepara 
tions  for  bed-making  on  her  behalf,  until  Rachel  told 
her  in  Chinook  that  she  would  sleep  in  her  chair  where 


110  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

she  was.  And  there  she  sat  through  the  night,  feeling 
that  the  eyes  of  the  Indian  girl  were  never  taken  from 
her  as  the  motionless  form  lay  rolled  in  a  blanket  on 
the  floor,  much  as  it  had  rolled  itself  up  on  the  grass 
that  other  day. 

Jim  was  throned  in  royal  state,  for  he  had  the  bed  all 
to  himself,  and  in  the  morning  opened  his  eyes  in  amaze 
ment  as  he  smelled  the  coffee  and  saw  the  Indian  girl 
moving  about  as  if  at  home. 

"Yes,  we've  got  a  new  cook,  Jim,"  said.  Miss 
Hardy,  from  the  window;  "so  we  are  out  of  work,  you 
and  I.  Sleep  well?" 

"Great!"  said  Jim,  yawning  widely.  "Where's  Mr. 
Jack?" 

"Out,  somewhere,"  returned  the  girl  comprehen 
sively.  She  did  not  add  that  he  had  been  out  all  night, 
and  Jim  was  too  much  interested  with  the  prospect  of 
breakfast  to  be  very  curious. 

He  had  it,  as  he  had  the  bed — all  to  himself.  Miss 
Hardy  was  not  hungry,  for  a  wonder,  and  Talapa  dis 
appeared  after  it  was  placed  on  the  table.  The  girl 
asked  Jim  if  that  was  Indian  etiquette,  but  Jim  didn't 
know  what  etiquette  was,  so  he  couldn't  tell. 

Through  that  long  vigil  of  the  night  there  had  returned 
to  the  girl  much  of  her  light,  ironical  manner;  but  the 
mockery  was  more  of  herself  and  her  own  emotions 
than  aught  else,  for  when  Genesee  brought  the  horses 
to  the  door  and  she  looked  in  his  face,  any  thought 
of  jesting  with  him  was  impossible;  the  signs  of  a  storm 
were  011  him  as  they  were  on  the  mountains  in  the  morn 
ing  light. 

"I  will  guide  you  back  to  the  home  trail,"  he  said  as 
he  held  Betty  at  the  door  for  her  to  mount. 

"Go  in  and  get  some  breakfast,"  was  all  the  answer 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  Ill 

she  made  him.  But  he  shook  his  head,  and  reached  his 
hand  to  help  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  everyone  this  morning?" 
asked  Jim.  "There  hasn't  been  a  bite  of  breakfast  eaten 
only  what  I  got  away  with  myself. ' ' 

Genesee  glanced  in  at  the  table.  "Would  you  eat 
nothing  because  it  was  mine?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  did  not  because  I  could  not,"  she  said  in  the 
same  tone;  and  then  added,  good-humoredly :  "Despite 
Jim's  belief  in  my  appetite,  it  does  go  back  on  me 
sometimes — and  this  is  one  of  the  times.  It's  too 
early  in  the  morning  for  breakfast.  Are  you  going 
with  us  on  foot?"  as  she  noticed  Mowitza,  unsaddled, 
grazing  about  the  green  turf  at  the  edge  of  the  tim 
ber. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have  not  far  to  go," 

She  slipped  past  him,  and  gathering  her  dress  up  from 
the  wet  grass  walked  over  to  where  Mowitza  browsed. 
The  beautiful  mare  raised  her  head  and  came  over  the 
grass  with  long,  light  steps,  as  if  recognizing  the  low  call 
of  her  visitor;  and  resting  her  head  on  the  girl's  shoulder, 
there  seemed  to  be  a  conversation  between  them  per 
fectly  satisfactory  to  each;  while  Mowitza's  owner 
stood  looking  at  them  with  a  world  of  conflicting  emo- 
tionsjn  his  face* 

"I  have  been  saying  good-bye  to  Mowitza,"  she 
remarked,  as  she  joined  them  and  mounted  Betty,  "and 
we  are  both  disconsolate.  She  carried  me  out  of  danger 
once,  and  I  am  slow  to  forget  a  favor." 

It  was  a  very  matter-of-fact  statement;  she  was  a 
matter-of-fact  young  woman  that  morning.  Genesee 
felt  that  she  was  trying  to  let  him  know  her  memory 
would  keep  only  the  best  of  her  knowledge  of  him.  It 
was  an  added  debt  to  that  which  he  already  owed  her, 


112  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

and  he  walked  in  silence  at  her  horse's  head,  finding  no 
words  to  express  his  thoughts,  and  not  daring  to  use 
them  if  he  had. 

The  valleys  were  wrapped  in  the  whitest  of  mists  as 
they  got  a  glimpse  of  them  from  the  heights.  The  sun 
was  struggling  through  one  veil  only  to  be  plunged 
into  another,  and  all  the  cedar  wood  was  in  the  drip, 
drip  of  tears  that  follow  tempests.  Where  was  all 
that  glory  of  the  east  at  sunrise  which  those  two  had 
once  watched  from  a  mountain  not  far  from  this?  In 
the  east,  as  they  looked  now,  there  were  only  faint 
streaks  of  lavender  across  the  sky — of  lavender  the  color 
of  mourning. 

He  directed  Jim  the  way  of  the  trail,  and  then  turned 
to  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you — or  just  how  low 
you  will  think  me,"  he  said  in  a  miserable  sort  of  way. 
"When  I  think  of — of  some  things,  I  wonder  that  you 
even  speak  to  me  this  morning — God!  I'm  ashamed 
to  look  you  in  the  face! " 

And  he  looked  it.  All  the  cool  assurance  that  had 
been  a  prominent  phase  of  his  personality  that  evening 
when  Hardy  met  him  first,  was  gone  His  handsome, 
careless  face  and  the  independent  head  were  drooped 
before  hers  as  his  broad-brimmed  hat  was  pulled  a  little 
lower  over  his  eyes. 

Some  women  are  curious,  and  this  one,  whom  he  had 
thought  unlike  all  others,  rather  justified  his  belief,  as 
she  bent  over  in  the  saddle  and  lifted  the  cover  from  his 
dark  hair. 

"Don't  be!"  she  said  gently — and  as  he  looked  up  at 
her  she  held  out  her  hand — "nika  tillikum"  (my 
friend);  and  the  sweetness  possible  in  the  words  had 
never  been  known  by  him  until  she  uttered  them  so. 


THE  STORM  — AND  AFTER.  113 

"My  friend,  don't  feel  like  that,  and  don't  think  me 
quite  a  fool.  I've  seen  enough  of  life  to  know  that 
few  men  under  the  same  circumstances  would  try  as 
hard  to  be  honest  as  you  did,  and  if  you  failed  in  some 
ways,  the  fault  was  as  much  mine  as  yours." 

"Rachel!"  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  called 
her  that. 

"Yes,  I  had  some  time  to  think  about  it  last  night," 
she  said,  with  a  little  ironical  smile  about  her  lips; 
"and  the  conclusion  I've  come  to  is  that  we  should 
afford  to  be  honest  this  morning,  and  not — not  so  very 
much  ashamed;"  and  then  she  hurried  on  in  her  speech, 
stumbling  a  little  as  the  clasp  of  his  hand  made  her 
unsteady  through  all  her  determination.  "I  will  not 
see  you  again,  perhaps  ever.  But  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  have  faith  in  your  making  a  great  deal  of  ycur 
life  if  you  try;  you  have  the  right  foundations — strong 
will  and  a  good  principle.  Mentally,  you  have  been 
asleep  here  in  the  hills— don't  find  fault  with  your 
awakening.  And  don't  feel  so — so  remorseful  about — 
that  night.  There  are  some  things  people  do  and  think 
that  they  can't  help — we  couldn't  help  that  night;  and 
so — good-bye — Jack. ' ' 

"God  bless  you,  girl!"  were  the  heart-felt,  earnest 
words  that  answered  her  good-bye;  and  with  a  last 
firm  clasp  of  hands,  she  turned  Betty's  head  toward  the 
trail  Jim  had  taken,  and  rode  away  under  the  cedar 
boughs. 

Genesee  stood  bare-headed,  with  a  new  light  in  his 
eyes  as  he  watched  her — the  dawn  of  some  growing 
determination. 

Once  she  looked  back,  and  seeing  him  still  there, 
touched  her  cap  in  military  fashion,  and  with  a  smile 
disappeared  in  the  wet  woods.  As  he  turned  away 


114  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

there  crept  from  the  shrubbery  at  the  junction  of 
the  trails  Talapa,  who,  with  that  slow,  knowing  smile 
about  her  full  lips,  stole  after  him  —  in  her  dusky 
silence  a  very  shadow  of  a  man's  past  that  grows 
heavy  and  wide  after  the  noon  is  dead,  and  bars 
out  lives  from  sunny  doors  where  happiness  might 
be  found  His  head  was  bent  low,  thinking — think 
ing  as  he  walked  back  to  the  cabin  that  had  once  held 
at  least  a  sort  of  content  —  a  content  based  on  one 
side  of  his  nature.  Had  the  other  died,  or  was  it 
only  asleep?  And  she  had  told  him  not  to  find  fault 
with  his  awakening — she!  He  had  never  before  real 
ized  the  wealth  or  loss  one  woman  could  make  to  the 
world. 

"Ashamed  to  look  her  in  the  face!"  His  own  words 
echoed  in  his  ears  as  he  walked  under  the  wet  leaves, 
with  the  shadow  of  the  shame  skulking  unseen  after 
Mm;  and  then,  little  by  little,  the  sense  of  her  fare 
well  came  back  to  him,  and  running  through  it,  that 
strong  thread  of  faith  in  him  yet,  making  his  life  more 
worth  living. 

"Damned  little  in  my  present  outfit  for  her  to  build 
any  foundation  for  hope  on,"  he  muttered  grimly,  as 
he  saddled  and  bridled  Mowitza,  as  if  in  hot  haste  to 
be  gone  somewhere,  and  then  sat  down  on  the  door 
step  as  if  forgetful  of  the  intention. 

Talapa  slipped  past  him  with  an  armful  of  bark  for 
the  fire.  Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them  since 
the  night  before,  and  the  girl  watched  him  covertly 
from  under  drooped  lids.  Was  she  trying  to  fathom 
his  meditations,  or  determine  how  .far  they  were  to 
affect  her  own  future?  For  as  the  birds  foretell  by 
the  signs  in  the  air  the  change  of  the  summer,  so 
Talapa,  through  the  atmosphere  of  the  cabin  that 


WHE  STORM  — AND  AFTER.  115 

morning,  felt  approach  the  end  of  a  season  that  had  been 
to  her  luxurious  with  comforts  new  to  her;  and  though 
the  Indian  blood  in  her  veins  may  have  disdained  the 
adjuncts  of  civilization,  yet  the  French  tide  that 
crossed  it  carried  to  her  the  Gallic  yearning  for  the 
dainties  and  delicacies  of  life.  To  be  sure,  one  would 
not  find  many  of  those  in  a  backwoodsman's  cabin; 
but  all  content  is  comparative,  and  Talapa's  basis  of 
comparison  was  the  earthen  floor  of  a  thronged  "tepee," 
or  wigwam,  where  blows  had  been  more  frequent  than 
square  meals;  and  being  a  thing  feminine,  her  affections 
turned  to  this  white  man  of  the  woods  who  could  give 
her  a  floor  of  boards  and  a  dinner-pot  never  empty, 
and  moreover,  being  of  the  sex  feminine,  those  bonds  of 
affection  were  no  doubt  securely  fastened — bonds  welded 
in  a  circle — endless. 

At  least  those  attributes,  vaguely  remembered,  are 
usually  conceded  to  the  more  gentle  half  of  humanity, 
and  I  give  Talapa  the  benefit  of  the  belief,  as  her  portrait 
has  been  of  necessity  set  in  the  shadows,  and  has  need  of 
all  the  high  lights  that  can  be  found  for  it.  Whatever 
she  may  have  lacked  from  a  high-church  point  of  view, 
she  had  at  least  enviable  self-possession.  Whatever 
tumult  of  wounded  feeling  there  may  have  been  in  this 
daughter  of  the  forest,  she  moved  around  sedately,  with 
an  air  that  in  a  white  woman  would  be  called  martyr- 
like,  and  said  nothing. 

It  was  as  well,  perhaps,  that  she  had  the  rare  gift 
of  silence,  for  the  man  at  the  door,  with  his  chin  rest 
ing  grimly  on  his  fists,  did  not  seem  at  all  sympa 
thetic,  or  in  the  humor  to  fit  himself  to  anyone's 
moods.  The  tones  of  that  girl's  voice  were  still 
vibrating  over  chords  in  his  nature  that  disturbed 
him.  He  did  not  even  notice  Talapa's  movements 


116  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 

until  she  ceased  them  by  squatting  down  with  native 
grace  by  the  fire-place,  and  then — 

"Get  up  off  that!"  he  roared,  in  a  voice  that  hastened 
Talapa's  rising  considerably. 

"That"  was  the  buffalo-robe  on  which  the  other  girl 
had  throned  herself  the  night  before;  and  what  a  picture 
she  had  made  in  the  fire-light ! 

Genesee  in  two  strides  crossed  the  floor,  and  grab 
bing  the  robe,  flung  it  over  his  shoulder.  No,  it  was 
not  courteous  to  unseat  a  lady  with  so  little  ceremony 
— it  may  not  even  have  been  natural  to  him,  so  many 
things  are  not  natural  to  us  human  things  that  are  yet 
so  true. 

"And  why  so?"  asked  Talapa  sullenly,  her  back 
against  the  wall  as  if  in  a  position  to  show  fight;  that 
is,  she  said  "Pe-kah-ta?"  but,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
civilized  reader,  the  ordinary  English  is  given — "And 
why  so?" 

Genesee  looked  at  her  a  moment  from  head  to  foot, 
but  the  scrutiny  resulted  in  silence — no  remark.  At 
length  he  walked  back  to  the  chest  against  the  wall, 
and  unlocking  it,  drew  out  an  account-book,  between 
the  leaves  of  which  were  some  money  orders;  two  of 
them  he  took  out,  putting  the  rest  in  his  pocket.  Then, 
writing  a  signature  on  those  two — not  the  name  of  Jack 
Genesee,  by  the  way — he  turned  to  Mistress  Talapa, 
who  had  slid  from  the  wall  down  on  the  floor  minus  the 
buffalo-robe. 

"Here!"  he  said  tersely.  "I  am  going  away.  Klat- 
awah  si-ah — do  you  understand?"  And  then,  fishing 
some  silver  out  of  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  her  with 
the  notes.  "Take  these  to  the  settlement — to  the 
bank-store.  They'll  give  you  money — money  to  live 
all  winter.  Live  in  the  cabin  if  you  want ;  only  get  out 


THE  STORM  — AND  AFTER.  117 

in  the  spring — do  you  hear?  I  will  want  it  myself  then 
— and  I  want  it  alone." 

Without  comment,  Talapa  reached  up  and  took  the 
money,  looking  curiously  at  the  notes,  as  if  to  decipher 
the  meaning  in  the  pictured  paper,  and  then: 

"Nika  wake  tikegh  Talapa?"  she  queried,  but  with 
nothing  in  her  tone  to  tell  if  she  cared  whether  he  wanted 
her  or  not. 

"Not  by  a — "  he  began  energetically,  and  then,  "you 
are  your  own  boss  now,"  he  added,  more  quietly.  "Go 
where  you  please,  only  you'd  better  keep  clear  of  the 
old  gang,  for  I  won't  buy  you  from  them  again  — • 
kumtuks?" 

Talapa  nodded  that  she  understood,  her  eyes  roving 
about  the  cabin,  possibly  taking  note  of  the  wealth  that 
she  had  until  spring  to  revel  in  or  filch  from. 

Genesee  noticed  that  mental  reckoning. 

"Leave  these  things  alone,"  he  said  shortly.  "Use 
them,  but  leave  them  here.  If  any  of  them  are  gone 
when  I  get  back — well,  I'll  go  after  them." 

And  throwing  the  robe  over  his  arm  again,  he  strode 
out  through  the  door,  mounted  Mowitza,  and  rode  away. 

It  was  not  a  sentimental  finale  to  an  idyl  of  the  wood, 
but  by  the  time  the  finale  is  reached,  the  average  human 
specimen  has  no  sentiment  to  waste.  Had  they 
possessed  any  to  begin  with? 

It  was  hard  to  tell  whether  Talapa  was  crushed  by 
the  cold  cruelty  of  that  leave-taking,  or  whether  she 
was  indifferent ;  that  very  uncertainty  is  a  charm  exerted 
over  us  by  those  conservative  natures  that  lock  within 
themselves  wrath  or  joy  where  we  ordinary  mortals 
give  expression  to  ours  with  all  the  language  possessed 
by  us,  and  occasionally  borrow  some  adjectives  that 
would  puzzle  us  to  give  a  translation  of. 


118  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Talapa  sat  where  he  left  her,  not  moving  except  once 
to  shy  a  pine  knot  at  a  rat  by  the  cupboard — and  hit  it, 
too,  though  she  did  belong  to  the  sex  divine.  So  she 
sat,  pensively  dribbling  the  silver  coin  from  hand  to 
hand,  until  the  morning  crept  away  and  the  sun  shone 
through  the  mists. 

What  was  it  that  at  last  awakened  her  from  an 
apparent  dreamland — the  note  of  that  bird  whistling 
in  the  forest  in  very  gladness  that  the  sun  shone 
again?  Evidently  so,  and  the  Indian  blood  in  her 
veins  had  taught  her  the  secret  of  sympathy  with  the 
wild  things,  for  she  gave  an  answering  call,  half  voice, 
half  whistle.  Silence  for  a  little,  and  then  again  from 
the  timber  came  that  quavering  note,  with  the  rising 
inflection  at  the  finish  that  was  so  near  an  interro 
gation. 

It  brought  Talapa  to  her  feet,  and  going  to  the  door, 
she  sent  a  short,  impatient  call  that  a  little  later  was 
answered  by  the  appearance  of  a  comely  buck — one  of 
the  order  of  red  men — who  lounged  down  the  little 
incline  with  his  head  thrust  forward  as  if  to  scent 
danger  if  any  was  about;  but  a  few  words  from  the 
girl  assuring  him  that  the  coast  was  clear — the  fort 
unguarded — gave  him  more  an  air  of  assurance,  as  he 
stepped  across  the  threshhold  and  squatted  down  on 
the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Genesee  gone?"  he  queried  in  the  musical  medley 
of  consonants. 

Talapa  grunted  an  assent,  with  love  in  her  eyes  for 
the  noble  specimen  on  the  bed. 

"Gone  far — gone  all  time — till  spring,"  she  communi 
cated,  as  if  sure  of  being  the  giver  of  welcome  news. 
"House  all  mine — everything  mine — all  winter." 

"Ugh!"  was  all  the  sound  given  in  answer  to  the 


THE  STORM  —  AND  AFTER.  119 

information;  but  the  wide  mouth  curved  upward  ever 
so  slightly  at  the  corners,  and  coupled  with  the  inter 
rogative  grunt,  expressed,  no  doubt,  as  much  content 
as  generally  falls  to  the  lot  of  individual  humanity. 
One  of  his  boots  hurt  him,  or  rather  the  moccasins 
which  he  wore  with  leggings,  and  above  them  old  blue 
pantaloons  and  a  red  shirt;  the  moccasin  was  ripped, 
and  without  ceremony  he  lessened  it  and  kicked  it 
toward  Talapa. 

"Mamook  tipshin,"  he  remarked  briefly;  and  by  that 
laconic  order  to  sew  his  moccasin,  Skulking  Brave 
virtually  took  possession  of  Genesee's  cabin  and  Gen- 
esee's  squaw. 

Through  the  gray  shadows  of  that  morning  Rachel 
and  Jim  rode  almost  in  silence  down  the  mountain  trail. 
The  memory  of  the  girl  was  too  busy  for  speech,  and  the 
frequent  yawns  of  Jim  showed  that  a  longer  sleep  would 
have  been  appreciated  by  him. 

"Say,"  he  remarked  at  last,  as  the  trail  grew  wide 
enough  for  them  to  ride  abreast,  "  everything  was  jolly 
back  here  at  Mr.  Jack's  last  night,  but  I'm  blest  if  it 
was  this  morning.  The  breakfast  wasn't  anything  to 
brag  of,  an'  the  fire  was  no  good,  an'  the  fog  made  the 
cabin  as  damp  as  rain  when  the  door  was  open,  an' 
he  was  glum  an'  quiet,  an'  you  wasn't  much  better. 
Say,  was  it  that  Injun  cook  o'  his  you  was  af eared  to 
eat  after?" 

"Not  exactly,"  she  answered  with  a  little  laugh; 
"what  an  observer  you  are,  Jim!  I  suppose  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  cabin  was  the  effect  of  the  storm  last 
night." 

"What?  Well,  the  storm  wasn't  much  worse  to 
plow  through  last  night  than  the  wet  timber  this  morn 
ing,"  he  answered  morosely;  "but  say,  here's  the  sun 


120  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

coming  out  at  last — by  George!  How  the  wind  lifts 
the  fog  when  it  gets  started.  Look  at  it!"  And  then, 
as  the  sunlight  really  crept  in  a  great  shimmer  through 
the  pines,  he  added:  "It  might  just  as  well  have  come 
earlier,  or  else  kept  away  altogether,  for  we're  as  wet 
now  as  we  can  get." 

"Be  thankful  that  it  shines  at  all,  Jim." 
"Oh,  the  shine's  all  right,  but  it  shines  too  late." 
"Yes,"  agreed  the  girl,  with  a  memory  of  shamed, 
despairing   eyes   flitting  through   her  brain.     "Yes,   it 
always  shines  too  late — for  someone." 

"It's  for  two  of  us  this  time,"  replied  grumbling 
Jim,  taking  her  speech  literally.  "We've  had  a  Nick 
of  a  time  anyway  this  trip.  Why  that  storm  had  to 
wait  until  just  the  day  we  got  lost,  so  as  we'd  get  wet, 
an'  straggle  home  dead  beat — an'  without  the  sheep — 
I  can't  see." 

"No,  we  can't  see,"  said  Rachel,  with  a  queer  little 
smile.  "Perhaps — perhaps  it's  all  because  this  is  the 
end  instead  of  the  beginning  of  a  cultus  corrie." 


PART  THIRD 

"PRINCE  CHARLIE" 
CHAPTER  I. 

IN   THE    KOOTENAI    SPRING-TIME. 

In  the  spring  that  followed,  what  a  spirit  of  prom 
ise  and  enterprise  was  abroad  on  the  Hardy  ranch! 
What  multitudes  of  white  lambs,  uncertain  in  the 
legs,  staggered  and  tottered  about  the  pasture  lands! 
and  what  musical  rills  of  joy  in  the  mountain  streams 
escaping  through  the  sunshine  from  their  prisons  of 
ice!  The  flowers  rose  from  the  dead  once  more — such 
a  fragrant  resurrection!  slipping  from  out  their  damp 
coffins  and  russet  winding-sheets  with  dauntless  heads 
erect,  and  eager  lips  open  to  the  breath  of  promise. 
Some  herald  must  bear  to  their  earth-homes  the  tid 
ings  of  how  sweet  the  sun  of  May  is — perhaps  the 
snow  sprites  who  are  melted  into  tears  at  his  glances 
and  slip  out  of  sight  to  send  him  a  carpet  of  many 
colors  instead  of  the  spotless  white  his  looks  had  ban 
ished.  It  may  be  so,  though  only  the  theory  of  an 
alien. 

And  then  the  winged  choruses  of  the  air!  What 
matinees  they  held  in  the  sylvan  places  among  the 
white  blossoms  of  the  dogwood  and  the  feathery  tassels 
of  the  river  willow,  all  nodding,  swaying  in  the  soft 
kisses  sent  by  the  Pacific  from  the  southwest — soft 
relays  of  warmth  and  moisture  that  moderate  those 

121 


122  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

western  valleys  until  they  are  affronted  by  the  rocky 
wall  that  of  old  was  called  by  the  Indians  the  Chip- 
pewyan  Mountains,  but  which  in  our  own  day,  in  the 
more  poetical  language  of  the  usurper,  has  been  improved 
upon  and  dubbed  the  "Rockies."  But  all  the  common 
places  of  those  aliens  can  not  deprive  the  inaccessible, 
conservative  solitudes  of  their  wild  charms.  And  after 
those  long  months  of  repression,  how  warmly  their  smile 
bursts  forth — and  how  contagious  it  is! 

Laugh  though  the  world  may  at  the  vibrations  of 
poet  hearts  echoing  the  songs  of  the  youngest  of  seasons, 
how  can  they  help  it?  It  is  never  the  empty  vessel 
that  brims  over,  and  with  the  spring  a  sort  of  inspira 
tion  is  wakened  in  the  most  prosaic  of  us.  The  same 
spirit  of  change  that  thrills  the  saplings  with  fresh 
vitality  sends  through  human  veins  a  creeping  ecstasy 
of  new  life.  And  all  its  insidious,  penetrating  charm 
seemed  abroad  there  in  the  Northern-land  escaped 
from  under  the  white  cloak  of  winter.  The  young  grass, 
fresh  from  the  valley  rains,  warmed  into  emerald  velvet 
in  the  sunshine,  bordered  and  braced  with  yellow 
buttons  of  dandelion;  while  the  soil  was  turned  over 
with  the  plows,  and  field  and  garden  stocked  with 
seed  for  the  harvest. 

Energetic,  busy  days  those  were  after  the  long  months 
of  semi-inaction;  even  the  horses  were  too  mettlesome 
for  farm  drudgery — intoxicated,  no  doubt,  by  the 
bracing,  free  winds  that  whispered  of  the  few  scattered 
droves  away  off  to  the  north  that  bore  no  harness  and 
owned  no  master.  All  things  were  rebellious  at  the 
long  restraint,  and  were  breaking  into  new  paths  of  life 
for  the  new  season. 

Even  a  hulking  Siwash,  with  his  squaw  and  children, 
lame  dragging  down  the  valley  in  the  wake  of  the  fresh- 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  123 

ets,  going  to  the  Reservation  south,  content  to  go  any 
place  where  they  could  get  regular  meals,  with  but  the 
proviso  to  be  "good  Injun." 

They  loafed  about  the  ranch  two  days,  resting,  and 
coming  in  for  a  share  of  rations  from  the  Hardy  table; 
and  the  little  barefooted  "hostiles"  would  stand  about 
the  gate  and  peer  in  around  the  posts  of  the  porch,  say 
ing  in  insinuating  tones  : 

"Pale  papoose?" 

Yes,  the  spirit  of  the  hills  and  grazing  lands  had  crept 
under  the  rafters  and  between  the  walls,  and  a  new  life 
had  been  given  to  the  world,  just  as  the  first  violets  crept 
sunward. 

And  of  course  no  other  life  was  ever  quite  so  sweet, 
so  altogether  priceless,  as  this  little  mite,  who  was 
already  mistress  of  all  she  surveyed ;  and  Aunty  Luce— 
their  one  female  servant — declared : 

"Them  eyes  o'  hers  certainly  do  see  everything  in 
reach  of  'em.  She's  a  mighty  peart  chile,  I'm  tellin' 
ye." 

Even  Jim  had  taken  to  loafing  around  the  house  more 
than  of  old,  and  showing  a  good  deal  of  nervous  irrita 
tion  if  by  any  chance  "she"  was  allowed  to  test  her 
lungs  in  the  slightest  degree.  The  setter  pups  paled 
into  insignificance,  and  a  dozen  times  a  day  he  would 
remark  to  Ivans  that  it  was  "the  darndest,  cutest,  little 
customer  he  ever  saw." 

"Even  you  have  become  somewhat  civilized,  Rachel, 
since  baby's  arrival,"  remarked  Tillie  in  commenda 
tion. 

Yes,  Rachel  was  still  there.  At  the  last  moment, 
a  few  appealing  glances  from  Tillie  and  some  per 
suasive  words  from  Hen  had  settled  the  question, 
and  a  rebellion  was  declared  against  taking  the  home 


124  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

trail,  and  all  the  words  of  the  Houghtons  fell  on  barren 
soil,  for  she  would  not — and  she  would  not. 

"They  will  never  miss  me  back  there  in  Kentucky," 
she  argued;  "there  are  so  many  girls  there.  But  out 
here,  femininity  is  at  a  premium.  Let  me  alone,  Clara; 
I  may  take  the  prize." 

' '  And  when  am  I  to  tell  the  folks  you  will  come  back  ? ' ' 
asked  Mrs.  Houghton,  with  the  purpose  of  settling  on 
a  fixed  time  and  then  holding  her  to  it. 

"Just  tell  them  the  truth,  dear — say  you  don't  know," 
answered  the  girl  sweetly.  "I  may  locate  a  claim  out 
here  yet  and  develop  into  a  stock-grower.  Do  not 
look  so  sulky.  I  may  be  of  use  here ;  no  one  needs  me  in 
Kentucky." 

' '  What  of  Nard  Stevens  ? ' '  was  a  final  query ;  at  which 
Rachel  no  longer  smiled — she  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  silly  Clara!"  she  burst  .out  derisively. 
"You  think  yourself  so  wise,  and  you  never  see  an  inch 
beyond  that  little  nose  of  yours.  Nard  needs  me  no 
more  than  I  need  him — bless  the  boy!  He's  a  good 
fellow;  but  you  can  not  use  him  as  a  trump  card  in 
this  game,  my  dear.  Yes,  I  know  that  speech  is 
slangy.  Give  my  love  to  Nard  when  you  see  him — 
well,  then,  my  kind  regards  and  best  wishes  if  the 
other  term  conflicts  with  your  proper  spirit,  and  tell 
him  I  have  located  out  here  to  grow  up  with  the  coun- 
try." 

And  through  the  months  that  followed  she  assuredly 
grew  to  the  country  at  all  events;  the  comparative 
mildness  of  the  winters  proving  a  complete  surprise 
to  her,  as,  hearing  of  the  severe  weather  of  the  North, 
she  had  not  known  that  its  greatest  intensity  extends 
only  to  the  eastern  wall  of  the  great  mountain  range, 
and  once  crossing  the  divide,  the  Chinook  winds  or 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  12H 

currents  from  the  Pacific  give  the  valleys  much  the 
temperature  of  our  Middle  States,  or  even  more  mild, 
since  the  snow-fall  in  the  mountains  is  generally  rain 
in  the  lowlands.  Sometimes,  of  course,  with  the 
quick  changes  that  only  the  wind  knows,  there  would 
come  a  swoop  downward  of  cold  from  the  direct  North, 
cutting  through  the  basins,  and  driving  the  Pacific  air 
back  coastward  in  a  fury,  and  those  fitful  gusts  were 
to  be  guarded  against  by  man  and  beast ;  and  wise  were 
growing  those  eastern  prophets  in  their  quickness  to 
judge  from  the  heavens  whether  storm  or  calm  was  to 
be  with  them. 

But  despite  Clara's  many  predictions,  the  days  did 
not  grow  dull  to  Rachel,  and  the  ranch  was  not  a  prison 
in  winter-time.  She  had  too  clearly  developed  the 
faculty  of  always  making  the  best  of  her  surroundings 
and  generally  drawing  out  the  best  points  in  the  people 
about  her. 

It  was  that  trait  of  hers  that  first  awakened  her 
interest  in  that  splendid  animal,  their  guide  from  the 
Maple  range. 

He  had  disappeared — gone  from  the  Kootenai  coun 
try,  so  they  told  her.  But  where?  or  for  what?  That 
none  could  answer. 

Her  memory  sometimes  brought  her  swift  flushes  of 
mortification  when  she  thought  of  him — of  their  associa 
tion  so  pregnant  with  some  sympathy  or  subtle  influ 
ence  that  had  set  the  world  so  far  beyond  them  at  times. 
Now  that  he  was  gone,  and  their  knowledge  of  each 
other  perhaps  all  over,  she  tried  to  coolly  reason  it  all 
out  for  herself,  but  found  so  much  that  contained  no 
reason — that  had  existed  only  through  impulses — 
impulses  not  easy  to  reailze  once  outside  the  circle  of 
their  attending  circumstances. 


126  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Those  memories  puzzled  her — her  own  weakness 
when  she  lay  in  his  arms,  and  her  own  gift  of  second- 
sight  that  gave  her  an  understanding  of  him  that  morn- 
Ing  when  she  turned  champion  for  him  against 
himself. 

Was  it  really  an  understanding  of  him?  or  was  it 
only  that  old  habit  of  hers  of  discovering  fine  traits  in 
characters  voted  worthless? — discoveries  laughed  at 
by  her  friends,  until  her  "spectacles  of  imagination" 
were  sometimes  requested  if  some  specimen  of  the 
genus  homo  without  any  redeeming  points  was  under 
discussion. 

Was  it  so  in  this  case?  She  had  asked  herself  the 
question  more  than  once  during  the  winter.  And  if 
she  had  been  at  all  pliable  in  her  opinions,  she  would 
long  ere  spring  have  dropped  back  to  the  original 
impression  that  the  man  was  a  magnificent  animal 
with  an  intellect,  and  with  spirituality  and  morality 
sleeping. 

But  she  was  not.  A  certain  stubbornness  in  her 
nature  kept  her  from  being  influenced,  as  the  others 
were,  by  the  knowledge  that  after  all  they  had  had  a 
veritable  "squaw  man  "  as  a  guide. 

Hardy  was  surprised,  and  Tillie  was  inconsol 
able. 

"I  never  will  believe  in  an  honest  face  again!"  she 
protested. 

' '  Nonsense ! ' '  laughed  Rachel.  ' '  Pocahontas  was  an 
Indian,  and  Rolfe  was  not  hustled  out  of  society  in 
consequence." 

"N— No,"  assented  Tillie,  eyeing  Rachel  doubtfully 
"but  then,  you  see  Rolfe  married  Pocahontas." 

"Yes?" 

"And — and  Ivans  told  Hen  he  heard  that  the  squaw 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  127 

you  saw  at  Genesee's  was  only  a  sort  of  slave.     Did  he 
tell  you  and  Jim  that  she  was  his  wife  ? ' ' 

"I— I  don't  know;"  and  Rachel  suddenly  sat  down 
on  a  chair  near  the  window  and  looked  rather  hope 
lessly  at  the  questioner.  "No,  I  don't  believe  he  said 
so,  but  the  circumstances  and  all — well,  I  took  it  for 
granted;  he  looked  so  ashamed." 

"And  you  thought  it  was  because  of  a  marriage  cere 
mony,  not  for  the  lack  of  one?" 

"Yes,"  acknowledged  the  girl,  inwardly  wondering 
why  that  view  of  the  question  had  not  presented  itself 
to  her.  Had  she  after  all  imagined  herself  sighting  an 
eagle,  and  was  it  on  nearer  acquaintance  to  develop 
into  a  vulture— or,  worse  still,  a  buzzard— a  thing 
reveling  only  in  carrion,  and  knowing  itself  to  unclean 
to  breathe  the  same  air  with  the  untainted!  So  it 
seemed;  so  Tillie  was  convinced;  so  she  knew  Clara 
would  have  thought.  In  fact,  in  all  the  range  of  her 
female  acquaintances  she  could  think  of  none  whose 
opinion  would  not  have  been  the  same,  and  she  had 
an  impatient  sort  of  wonder  with  herself  for  not  agree 
ing  with  them.  But  the  memory  of  the  man's 
face  that  morning,  and  the  echo  of  that  "God  bless 
you,  girl!"  'always  drifted  her  away  from  utter  unbelief 
in  him. 

She  heard  considerable  about  him  that  winter;  that 
he  was  thought  rather  eccentric,  and  belonged  more  to 
the  Indians  than  the  whites,  sometimes  living  with  a 
tribe  of  Kootenais  for  weeks,  sometimes  disappearing, 
no  one  knew  where,  for  months,  and  then  settling 
down  in  the  cabin  again  and  placidly  digging  away  at 
that  hole  in  the  hill  by  the  little  lake— the  hill  itself 
called  by  the  Indians  "Tamdhnous"  meaning  be 
witched,  or  haunted.  And  his  persistence  in  that 


128  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

work  was  one  of  the  eccentric  things  that  made  some 
people  say  significantly: 

"They  allowed  Genesee  was  a  good  man,  but  a  little 
*  touched'  on  the  silver  question." 

And  for  Tillie's  benefit  Hen  had  to  explain  that  the 
term  "  good  "  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  man's 
moral  or  spiritual  worth;  its  use  was  in  a  purely  physical 
sense. 

After  the  snows  fell  in  the  mountains  there  were 
but  few  strangers  found  their  way  to  the  new  ranch. 
Half  locked  in  as  it  was  by  surrounding  hills,  the  passes 
were  likely  to  be  dangerous  except  to  the  initiated, 
and  there  were  not  many  who  had  business  urgent 
enough  to  push  them  through  the  drifts,  or  run  their 
chances  with  land-slides.  But  if  a  stray  hunter  did 
come  their  way,  his  call  was  not  allowed  to  be  a  short 
one.  They  had  already  become  too  thoroughly  Western 
in  their  hospitality  to  allow  the  quick  departure  of  a 
guest,  a  trait  of  which  they  had  carried  the  germs  from 
old  Kentucky. 

What  cheery  evenings  there  were  in  the  great  sitting- 
room,  with  the  logs  heaped  high  in  the  stone 
fire-place!  An  uncarpeted  room,  with  long,  cushioned 
settees  along  two  sides  of  it — and  mighty  restful  they 
were  voted  by  the  loungers  after  the  day's  work;  a 
few  pictures  on  the  wall,  mostly  engravings;  the  only 
color  given  the  furnishing  was  in  the  pink  and  maroon 
chintz  curtains  at  the  windows,  or  cushions  to  the 
oak  chairs.  There  in  the  firelight  of  the  long 
evenings  were  cards  played,  or  stories  told,  or  maga 
zines  read  aloud,  Rachel  and  Hen  generally  taking  turn 
about  as  reader.  And  Tillie  in  the  depths  of  the  cush 
ioned  rocker,  knitting  soft  wool  stuffs,  was  a  chatelaine, 
the  picture  of  serene  content,  with  close  beside  her  a 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  129 

foil  in  the  form  of  black  Aunty  Luce,  whom  only  devo 
tion  to  her  young  miss  would  ever  have  tempted  into 
those  wilds;  and  after  the  work  was  over  for  the  night, 
it  was  a  usual  thing  to  see  her  slipping  in  and  snug 
gling  down  quietly  to  listen  to  the  stories  told  or  read, 
her  big  eyes  glancing  fearfully  toward  windows  or 
doors  if  the  Indian  question  was  ever  touched  on; 
though  occasionally,  if  approached  with  due  ceremony 
and  full  faith  shown  in  her  knowledge,  she  would  her 
self  add  her  share  to  the  stories  told,  her  donation 
consisting  principally  of  sure  "hoodoos,"  and  the  doings 
of  black  witches  and  warlocks  in  the  land  of  bayous; 
for  Aunty  Luce  had  originally  come  from  the  swamps  of 
Louisiana,  where  the  native  religion  and  superstitions 
have  still  a  good  following.  And  old  Aunty's  reminis 
cences  added  to  the  variety  of  their  evening's  bill  of 
entertainment. 

A  mail-carrier  unexpectedly  sprang  up  for  them 
in  the  winter  in  the  person  of  a  young  half-breed  called 
Kalitan,  or  the  Arrow.  He  had  another  name,  his 
father,  an  Englishman,  and  agent  for  a  fur  company, 
had  happened  to  be  around  when  his  swarthy  offspring 
was  ushered  into  the  world,  and  he  promptly  bestowed 
on  him  his  own  name  of  Thomas  Alexander.  But  it 
was  all  he  did  bestow  on  him — and  that  only  by  cour 
tesy,  not  legality;  and  Alexander  Junior  had  not  even 
the  pleasure  of  remembering  his  father's  face,  as  his 
mother  was  soon  deserted.  She  went  back  to  her  tribe 
and  reared  her  son  as  an  Indian,  even  his  name  in 
time  was  forgotten,  as  by  common  consent  the  more 
characteristic  one  of  Kalitan  was  given  him  because  of 
the  swiftness  of  foot  that  had  placed  him  among  the 
best  "runners"  or  messengers  in  the  Indian  country— 
and  the  average  speed  of  a  runner  will  on  a  long  march 

9 


130  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

out-distance  that  of  cavalry.  At  the  military  post  at 
Fort  Missoula,  Kalitan's  lines  had  first  fallen  among 
those  of  Genesee,  and  for  some  unexplained  reason 
his  adherence  to  that  individual  became  as  devoted 
as  Mowitza's  own.  For  a  long  time  they  had  not  ranged 
far  apart,  Genesee  seldom  leaving  the  Kootenai  country 
that  Kalitan  did  not  disappear  as  well.  This  last 
trip  his  occupation  was  gone,  for  word  had  been  left 
with  MacDougall  that  the  trail  was  not  clear  ahead, 
but  if  Kalitan  was  wanted  he  would  be  sent  for,  and 
that  sinewy,  bronze  personage  did  not  seem  to  think 
of  doing  other  than  wait — and  the  waiting  promised  to 
be  long. 

He  took  to  hanging  around  Scot's  Mountain  more  than 
of  old,  with  the  query,  "May -be  Genesee  send  lettah — 
s'pose?  I  go  see." 

And  go  he  would,  over  and  over  again,  always  with 
a  philosophic  "S'pose  next  time,"  when  he  returned 
empty-handed.  Sometimes  he  stopped  at  the  ranch, 
and  Rachel  at  once  recognized  him  as  the  youth  who 
had  brought  her  the  black  bear  skin  months  before, 
and  pretended  at  the  time  utter  ignorance  of  Chinook. 
He  would  speak  Chinook  fast  enough  to  her  now  if 
there  was  any  occasion,  his  white  blood,  and  the  idea 
that  she  was  Genesee 's  friend,  inclining  him  to  socia 
bility  seldom  known  to  the  aristocratic  conservatives 
of  the  Indian  race. 

The  nearest  mail  station  was  twenty  miles  south, 
and  it  was  quite  an  item  to  find  a  messenger  as  willing 
as  was  Kalitan;  storm  or  calm,  he  would  make  the 
trip  just  the  same,  carrying  his  slip  of  paper  on  which 
all  the  names  were  written  and  which  he  presented  as 
an  order  to  the  postmaster.  A  big  mail  was  a  cause  of 
pride  to  him,  especially  magazines  or  packages.  Letters 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  131 

he  did  not  think  of  much  account,  because  of  their 
size. 

To  Aunty  Luce  he  was  a  thing  of  dread,  as  were  all 
of  his  race.  She  was  firmly  convinced  that  the  dusky, 
well-featured  face  belonged  to  an  imp  of  the  evil  one, 
and  that  he  simply  slid  over  the  hills  on  the  cold  winds, 
without  even  the  aid  of  a  broom-stick.  The  nights 
that  he  spent  at  the  ranch  found  Aunty's  ebony 
face  closer  than  ever  to  the  side  of  Mistress  Tillie's 
chair. 

Another  member  had  been  added  to  the  visiting 
list  at  Hardy's,  and  that  was  the  sovereign  of  Scot's 
Mountain. 

Along  in  midwinter,  Kalitan  brought  a  scrawled  note 
from  "Ole  Man  Mac,"  asking  for  some  drugs  of  which 
he  stood  in  need.  The  request  brought  to  light  the  fact 
that  Kalitan  one  day  while  paying  visits  had  found 
"Ole  Man  Mac"  sick  in  bed — "heap  sick — crank — no 
swallow  medicine  but  white  man's." 

The  required  white  man's  medicine  was  sent,  and 
with  it  a  basket  with  white  bread,  fresh  butter,  and 
various  condiments  of  home  manufacture  that  Tillie's 
kindly  heart  prompted  her  to  send  to  the  old  trapper- 
one  of  their  nearest  neighbors. 

The  following  day  Rachel  and  her  henchman  Jim 
started  on  Kalitan 's  trail,  with  the  idea  of  learning 
personally  if  any  further  aid  that  the  ranch  could  give 
was  needed  at  the  cabin.  A  snow  three  days  old  cov 
ered  the  ground,  in  which  Kalitan 's  trail  was  easily 
followed;  and  then  Rachel  had  been  over  the  same 
route  before,  starting  light-hearted  and  eager,  on  that 
cultus  corrie. 

They  reached  Scot's  Mountain  a  little  after  noon, 
and  found  its  grizzled,  unshaven  owner  much  better 


132  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

than  he  had  been  the  day  before,  and  close  beside  him 
on  the  pillow  lay  his  one  companion,  the  cat. 

"Well,  well!  to  think  o'  this!"  said  the  old  man, 
reaching  a  brawny  hand  to  her  from  the  bunk.  "You're 
the  first  white  woman  as  ever  passed  that  door-post, 
and  it's  rare  and  glad  I  am  that  it's  your  own  self." 

"Why  myself  more  than  another?"  she  asked,  rather 
surprised  at  his  words.  "I  would  have  come  long 
ago  if  I  had  known  I  was  wanted,  or  that  you  even 
knew  of  me." 

"Have  I  not,  then?"  he  queried,  looking  at  her 
sharply  from  under  his  wrinkled,  half -closed  lids. 
"But  sit  ye  down,  lady.  Kalitan,  bring  the  chair. 
And  is  that  a  brother — the  lad  there?  I  thought  I  had 
na  heard  of  one.  Sit  you  down  close  that  I  can  see  ye — 
a  sight  good  for  sore  een;  an'  I  have  no  heard  o'  ye? 
Ah,  but  I  have,  though.  Many's  the  hour  the  lad  has 
lain  lazy  like  on  the  cot  here,  an'  told  me  o'  the  gay 
folk  frae  the  East.  Ye  know  I'd  be  a  bit  curious  o' 
my  new  neighbors,  an'  would  be  askin'  many's  the 
question,  an'  all  the  tales  would  end  wi'  something 
about  the  lass  that  was  ay  the  blithe  rider,  an'  ever  the 
giver  o'  good  judgment." 

The  girl  felt  her  face  grow  hot  under  those  sharp 
old  eyes.  She  scarcely  knew  what  to  say,  and  yet 
could  give  no  sensible  reason  for  such  embarrassment; 
and  then — 

"The  lad— what  lad?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Oh — ay.  I  clean  forgot  he  is  no  lad  to  you.  Kali- 
tan,  will  ye  be  building  up  that  fire  a  bit?  When  we 
have  quality  to  visit  we  must  give  them  a  warm  wel 
come,  if  no  more.  An'  the  lad,  as  I  was  savin',''  he 
continued,  "was  but  Genesee — no  other;  though  he 
looked  more  the  lad  when  I  called  him  so  first." 


'/  would  have  come  long  ago  if  I  had  known  1  was  wanted. 
Page  132. 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  133 

"You  are  such  old  friends,  then?" 

"No  so  old  as  so  close,  ye  might  say.  It's  a  matter 
o'  five  year  now  since  he  come  up  in  these  hills  wi' 
some  men  who  were  prospect  in',  an'  one  an'  another 
got  tired  and  dropped  down  the  country  again  till 
only  Genesee  was  left.  He  struck  that  haunted  hill 
in  the  Maple  range  that  they  all  said  was  of  no  good, 
an'  he  would  na  leave  it.  There  he  stuck  in  very 
stubbornness,  bewitched  like  by  it;  an'  the  day  before 
his  flittin'  in  the  fall  found  him  clear  through  the  hill, 
helped  a  bit  by  striking  into  an  old  mine  that  nobody 
knew  aught  of.  Think  o'  that! — dug  into  a  mine  that 
had  been  abandoned  by  the  Indians  generations  ago, 
most  like." 

"I  did  not  know  that  the  Indians  ever  paid  attention 
to  mining.  They  seem  to  know  no  use  for  gold  or  silver 
until  the  white  men  teach  them  it." 

"True  enough;  but  there  the  old  mine  stands,  as  a 
clear  showin'  that  some  o'  the  heathen,  at  some  time, 
did  mine  in  that  range;  an'  the  stone  mallets  an'  such 
like  that  he  stumbled  on  there  shows  that  the  cave  was 
no  the  result  o'  accident." 

"And  has  he  at  last  given  it  up  as  hopeless?" 

"That's  as  time  may  happen  to  tell,"  answered  the 
old  man  sagely;  "an'  old  Daddy  Time  his  own  self 
could  na  keep  his  teeth  shut  more  tight  than  can  Gen 
esee  if  there's  a  bit  secret  to  hold.  But  o'  the  old  mine 
he  said  little  when  he  was  takin'  the  trail,  only,  'It  has 
kept  these  thousand  o'  years,  Davy — it  will  most  like 
keep  until  I  get  back.'  " 

From  that  speech  Rachel  gathered  the  first  intimation 
that  Genesee 's  absence  from  the  Kootenai  country 
was  only  a  transient  one.  Was  he  then  to  come  back 
and  again  drop  his  life  into  its  old  lines?  She  did  not 


134  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

like  to  think  of  it — or  to  question.  But  that  winter 
visit  to  "Ole  Man  Mac,"  as  Kalitan  called  him,  was 
the  beginning  of  an  avowed  friendship  between  the  old 
hermit  of  the  northern  hills  and  the  young  girl  from  the 
southern  ones. 

Her  independent,  curious  spirit  and  youthful  vitality 
were  a  sort  of  tonic  to  him,  and  as  he  grew  better  he 
accepted  her  invitation  to  visit  the  ranch,  and  from 
that  time  on  the  grizzled  head  and  still  athletic  frame 
of  the  old  fellow  were  not  strange  to  the  Hardy  house 
hold.  He  was  there  as  often  as  was  consistent  with 
the  weather  in  the  hills  and  almost  seventy  years  of 
braving  their  hardships;  for  of  late  years  MacDougall 
did  not  range  widely.  His  traps  could  find  too  many 
nooks  near  home  for  mink,  lynx,  and  the  black  bear, 
and  from  the  Kootenai  tribes  on  the  north  he  bought 
pelts,  acting  the  trader  as  well  as  trapper;  and  twice  a 
year  making  a  trip  to  a  settlement  to  dispose  of  his 
wares,  with  horses  from  his  Indian  neighbors  to  transport 
them  with. 

Rachel  learned  that  for  forty  years  he  had  followed 
that  isolated  life — moving  steadily  farther  west  or 
farther  north  as  the  grip  of  civilization  made  itself 
felt  behind  him ;  and  he  felt  himself  crowded  if  a  settler's 
prairie  schooner  was  sighted  within  twenty-five  miles 
of  him.  The  girl  wondered,  often,  the  cause  of  that 
self-exile,  but  no  word  or  sign  gave  her  any  clew.  He 
had  come  from  the  eastern  highlands  of  Scotland  when 
less  than  thirty  years  old,  and  had  struck  out  at  once 
for  the  extreme  borders  of  civilization  in  America;  and 
there  he  had  remained — always  on  the  borders — never 
quite  overtaken. 

"It  will  be  but  a  few  more  stands  I  can  make,"  he 
would  say  to  her  sometimes.  "Time  is  little  content 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  135 

to  be  a  laggard,  and  he  is  running  me  close  in  a  race  he 
has  na'  a  doubt  of  winning." 

With  advancing  years,  the  barrier,  whatever  the 
foundation,  that  he  had  raised  between  himself  and 
the  world  was  evidently  weakening  somewhat;  and 
first  through  Genesee,  and  now  through  this  girl,  had 
come  a  growing  desire  for  intercourse  with  his  own 
race  once  more.  And  much  teasing  did  the  girl  get  in 
consequence  of  the  visits  that  by  the  family  in  general 
were  conceded  to  belong  to  Rachel  in  particular,  teas 
ing,  however,  which  she  bore  with  indifference,  openly 
claiming  that  the  stronger  interest  was  on  her  side, 
and  if  he  forgot  his  visits  she  would  certainly  go  her 
self  to  Scot's  Mountain  to  learn  the  why  and  where 
fore.  This  she  did  more  than  once,  through  the 
season,  when  indoor  life  grew  at  all  monotonous;  some 
times  with  Jim  as  a  companion,  and  sometimes  with 
Kalitan  trotting  at  her  mare's  head,  and  guiding  very 
carefully  Betty's  feet  over  the  dangerous  places  - 
Aunty  Luce  always  watching  such  a  departure  with 
prophecies  of  "Miss  Rache's  sca'p  a-hangin'  round 
the  neck  o'  that  red  nigger  some  o'  these  days,  I'm 
a-tellin'  yeh!" 

Despite  prophecies,  Kalitan  proved  a  most  eager  and 
careful  guardian,  seeming  to  feel  rather  proud  when  he 
was  allowed  to  be  her  sole  companion. 

Sometimes  he  would  say:  "S'pose  you  hear  where 
Genesee  is — may  be?"  and  at  her  negative  he,  like  a 
philosopher  of  unlimited  patience,  would  content 
himself  with:  ''Sometime  he  sure  come;  s'pose  waum 
illihie" — waum  illihie  meaning  the  summer-time;  and 
Rachel,  noting  his  faithfulness  to  that  one  idea, 
wondered  how  many  seasons  his  patience  would  en 
dure. 


136  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

At  last,  about  the  middle  of  April,  he  stalked  into 
the  ranch  door  one  morning  early,  scaring  Aunty  Luce 
out  of  her  seven  senses,  or  as  many  extra  ones  as  she  laid 
claim  to. 

"Rashell  Hardy?"  was  all  he  deigned  to  address  to 
that  personage,  so  inborn  in  the  Indian  is  the  scorn 
of  a  slave  or  those  of  slavish  origin.  And  Kalitan 
who  had  lived  almost  entirely  with  his  tribe,  had  many 
of  the  aristocratic  ideas  of  race  that  so  soon  degenerate 
in  the  Indian  of  the  settlements  or  haunts  of  the  white 
man.  Once  Aunty  Luce,  not  understanding  his  ideas 
of  caste,  thought  to  propitiate  him  with  some  kindly 
social  inquiry  as  to  the  state  of  his  health  and  well- 
being,  and  had  beat  an  ignominious  retreat  to  the 
floor  above  at  the  black  look  of  indignation  on  his 
face  at  being  questioned  by  a  slave.  When  Rachel 
took  him  to  task  for  such  a  ferocious  manner,  he 
answered,  with  a  sullen  sort  of  pride:  "I,  Kalitan, 
am  of  a  race  of  chiefs — not  a  dog  to  be  bidden  by 
black  blood;"  and  she  had  noticed  then,  and  at  other 
times,  that  any  strong  emotion,  especially  anger, 
gave  an  elevated  tone  and  manner  of  speech  to  him 
and  his  race,  lifting  it  out  of  the  slurred  common 
places  of  the  mongrel  jargon — a  direct  contradiction 
of  their  white  brother,  on  whom  anger  generally  has 
an  effect  exactly  contrary.  After  that  one  venture  of 
Aunty's  at  timorous  friendliness,  she  might  have  been 
a  dumb  woman  so  far  as  Kalitan  ever  had  further 
knowledge;  for  her  conversations  in  his  presence  were 
from  that  date  carried  on  entirely  in  pantomime,  often 
to  the  annoyance,  though  always  to  the  amusement,  of 
the  family. 

Kalitan's  abrupt  entrance  and  query  that  April 
morning  was  answered  by  a  comprehensive  nod  and 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  137 

wave  of  pudgy  black  hands  toward  the  sitting-room, 
into  which  he  walked  without  knocking — that,  also 
perhaps,  being  deemed  a  prerogative  of  his  lordly 
race. 

"Why,  Kalitan,  so  early!"  said  Rachel  in  surprise. 
"Are  you  trying  to  outrun  the  sun?  What  is  it?" 
For  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  usual  calm  of  his 
countenance,  recognized  at  once  that  some  new  cur 
rent  of  emotion  was  struggling  for  supremacy  in  him 
that  morning.  He  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  seated 
himself  in  impressive  silence  on  the  edge  of  one  of 
the  settees,  and  after  a  dramatic  pause  that  he  con 
sidered  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  importance  of  his  com 
munication,  he  addressed  himself  to  Rachel — the 
only  woman,  by  the  way,  whom  he  was  ever  known  to 
meet  or  converse  with  on  terms  of  equality,  as  Indian 
chivalry  does  not  extend  to  their  exaltation  of  the 
gentler  sex. 

"Rashell  Hardy,"  he  said,  in  a  mingling  of  English 
and  Chinook,  "I,  Kalitan,  the  Arrow,  shoot  to  the 
south.  Genesee  has  sent  in  the  talking-paper  to  Ole 
Man  Mac  that  the  Reservation  Indians  south  have  dug 
up  the  hatchet.  Genesee  is  taking  the  trail  from  the 
fort,  with  rifle  and  many  men,  and  he  wants  an  arrow 
that  can  shoot  out  of  sight  of  any  other;  so  he  wants 
Kalitan." 

And  having  delivered  himself  of  this  modest  enco 
mium  on  his  own  worth,  there  was  a  stage-wait  of  about 
a  minute,  that  might  have  been  relieved  by  some  words 
conceding  his  superiority,  but  wasn't.  Rachel  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  as  if  in  momentary  forget- 
fulness  of  the  honor  done  her  in  this  statement  of  facts. 
Kalitan  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Ole  Man  Mac  come  down  valley,  may  be,  in  two 


138  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

days.  I  stop  to  tell  you,  and  say  like  white  man, 
klahowya." 

And  with  the  Indian  word  of  farewell,  he  turned  to 
the  door,  when  Rachel  stopped  him. 

"Wait,  Kalitan,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
stop  him.  "You  are  going  south  into  the  hostile  coun 
try.  Will  the  Arrow  carry  a  message  as  it  flies?" 

"Let  Rashell  Hardy  speak.  Kalitan  is  swift.  A 
message  is  not  heavy  from  a  friend." 

"That  is  it,  Kalitan;  it  is  to  your  friend — Genesee." 

"Rachel!"  ejaculated  Tillie,  who  had  been  a  silent 
auditor  of  this  queer  little  scene,  with  its  ceremony 
and  its  ludicrous  features — ludicrous  to  any  not  know 
ing  the  red  man's  weakness  for  forms  and  a  certain 
pomposity  that  seems  a  childish  love  of  display  and 
praise.  But  Rachel  never  ridiculed  it;  instead,  she 
simply  let  herself  drop  into  his  tone,  and  thus  enhanced 
very  much  his  opinion  of  her.  And  at  Tillie's  voice 
she  turned  impatiently. 

"Well,  why  not?"  she  asked;  and  her  combative  air 
at  once  reduced  Tillie  to  withdrawing  as  easily  as  she 
could  from  the  discussion. 

"But,  dear,  the  man's  reputation!  and  really  you 
know  he  is  nothing  we  thought  he  was.  He  is  scarcely 
fit  for  any  lady  to  speak  to.  It  is  better  to  leave  such 
characters  alone.  One  never  can  tell  how  far  they 
may  presume  on  even  recognition." 

"Yes?  After  all,  Tillie,  I  believe  you  are  very  much 
of  the  world  worldly.  Did  he  stop  to  ask  if  I  was 
entirely  a  proper  sort  of  person  before  he  started  to  hunt 
for  me  that  time  in  the  Kootenai  hills  ? ' ' 

' '  Nonsense !  Of  course  not.  But  the  cases  are  totally 
unlike." 

"Naturally.     He  is  a  man;  I  am  a  woman.     But  if 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  139 

the  cases  were  reversed,  though  I  might  preserve  a 
better  reputation,  I  doubt  much  if,  in  some  respects,  I 
should  equal  the  stubborn  strength  of  character  I  have 
seen  that  man  show  at  times." 

"Oh,  I  might  have  known  better  than  to  advise  you, 
Rachel,  if  I  wanted  to  influence  you,"  remarked  Tillie 
helplessly.  "You  are  like  an  Irishman,  always  spoil 
ing  for  a  fight,  and  hunt  up  the  most  ridiculous,  impos 
sible  theories  to  substantiate  your  views;  but  I  am  so 
disappointed  in  that  man — he  seemed  such  a  fine  fel 
low.  But  when  we  are  assured  of  our  mistake,  it  is 
time,  especially,  Rachel,  for  a  girl,  to  drop  all  acquaint 
ance  with  him." 

"I  wish  I  was  not  a  girl.  Then  I  would  not  have 
to  be  hedged  in  forever.  You  would  not  think  it  so 
terrible  if  Hen  or  Ivans,  or  any  of  the  men,  were  to  meet 
him  as  usual  or  send  word  to  him  if  they  chose/' 

"But  that  is  different." 

"And  I  am  sick  of  the  differences.  The  more  I  see 
the  narrowness  of  social  views,  the  less  I  wonder  at 
old  MacDougall  and  Genesee  taking  to  the  mountains, 
where  at  least  the  life,  even  the  life's  immoralities,  are 
primitive." 

"Primitive!  Oh,  good  Lord!"  ejaculated  Tillie  in 
serio-comic  despair.  "What  would  you  suggest  as  an 
improvement  on  their  simplicity  ? ' ' 

And  then,  both  being  rather  good-natured  women, 
the  absurdity  of  their  vehemence  seemed  to  strike 
them,  and  looking  at  each  other  for  a  second,  they  both 
burst  out  laughing. 

All  this  time  Kalitan  stood,  showing  his  silent  dis 
dain  of  this  squaw  "wait-wait"  with  the  impassive  gaze 
that  went  straight  over  their  heads  at  the  opposite 
wall,  not  seeing  the  debaters,  as  if  it  were  beneath 


140  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

his  dignity  to  open  his  ears  to  their  words.  In  fact, 
his  dignity  had  been  enhanced  several  degrees  since 
his  visit  to  the  ranch,  some  ten  days  before — all  because 
of  that  "talking-paper,"  no  doubt,  that  had  come 
from  the  Fort,  and  his  full  Indian  dress — for  he  would 
scorn  to  wear  the  garb  of  his  father — was  decked  with 
several  additional  trinkets,  borrowed  or  stolen  from 
the  tribe,  that  were  likely  to  render  his  appearance 
more  impressive. 

And  Rachel,  glancing  at  him,  was  reminded  by  that 
manner  of  dignified  toleration  that  she  had  kept  him 
waiting  no  doubt  five  minutes — and  five  minutes  in  the 
flight  of  an  arrow  is  a  life-time. 

"Tell  Jack  Genesee,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  in 
complete  negligence  of  arguments  just  used,  "that 
Rachel  Hardy  sends  to  him  greetings — you  under 
stand?  That  she  is  glad  t-  hear  where  he  is;  a  soldier's 
life  is  a  good  one  for  him,  and  she  will  always  have  faith 
in  his  fighting  well,  and  trying  t.  fight  on  the  right  side. 
Is  that  message  much  to  remember?" 

Kalitan  poetically  answered  in  Chinook  to  the  effect 
that  his  heart  was  in  his  ears  when  she  spoke,  and 
would  be  in  his  tongue  when  he  met  Genesee:  and 
with  that  startling  statement  he  made  his  exit, 
watchcc?  by  Aunty  Luce  from  the  stairs  on  which  she 
had  taken  refuge. 

"You  are  a  queer  girl,  Rache,"  said  Tillie  as  Rachel 
stood  watching  the  gaily-decked,  sinewy  form  as  it 
broke  into  a  sort  of  steady  trot,  once  outside  the  gate, 
and  was  so  quickly  out  of  sight  down  the  valley. 

"Am  I?  Try  and  say  something  more  original,"  she 
suggested. 

"I  believe  you  would  make  a  good  missionary,"  con 
tinued  Tillie  debatably.  "Your  theory  of  civilizing  peo- 


IN  THE  KOOTENAI  SPRING-TIME.  141 

pie  seems  to  be  all  right;  but  while  it  may  work  capi 
tally  with  those  savages  born  in  heathendom,  I  fear 
its  results  when  applied  to  enlightened  mortals  who 
have  preferred  dropping  into  degraded  lives.  Your 
laudable  energy  is  likely  to  be  wasted  on  that  sort  of 
material." 

"What  a  learned  diagnosis  for  you  to  make,  my 
child,"  said  Miss  Hardy  approvingly.  "Aunty  Luce 
confided  to  me  she  was  going  to  make  a  'batch'  of 
sugar  cookies  this  morning,  and  you  shall  have  the 
very  first  one  as  a  reward  for  delivering  your  little 
speech  so  nicely." 


142  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   RECRUIT   FROM    THE    WORLD. 

"  Oh,  cam'  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 
Or  herd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man?" 

Spring,  with  its  showers  and  promises,  drifted  into 
the  dim  perspective,  as  summer,  with  flaunting  assump 
tion,  took  possession  of  the  foreground.  All  through 
the  changing  weeks  rumors  came  from  the  south  and 
east,  telling  of  disaffection  among  the  hereditary  lords 
of  the  soil,  and  petty  troubles  in  different  localities, 
that,  like  low  mutterings  of  far-off  thunder,  promised 
storms  that  might  be  remembered. 

Some  rust  on  the  wheels  of  the  slow-moving  ma 
chinery  of  government  had  caused  a  delay  in  the  deal 
ings  with  the  people  on  the  reservations.  Treaties 
ignored  through  generations,  in  both  letter  and  spirit, 
are  not  calculated  to  beget  faith  in  the  hearts  of  the 
red  nations,  or  teach  them  belief  in  the  straightness 
of  our  tongues.  Was  it  the  fault  of  the  Department 
of  the  Interior  at  Washington,  or  the  dishonesty  of 
their  local  agents? — the  chicanery  of  the  party  in 
office,  or  the  scheme  of  some  political  ring  that  wanted 
to  get  in  by  bringing  forward  a  cause  for  condemna 
tion  of  the  existing  regime  ?  Whatever  one  of  the 
multitudinous  excuses  was  finally  given  for  neglect 
of  duty — treaties,  promises  of  government — Mr  Lo 
nad  now — as  he  has  ever  had — to  bear  the  suffering  in 
question,  whether  just  or  unjust. 

Small  wonder  if,  now  and  then,  a  spark  of  that  old  fire 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  143 

in  the  blood  ignites,  and  even  the  most  tamed  spirits 
rise  up  ready  to  write  pages  of  history  in  blood.  The 
only  wonder  is  that  they  ever  pass  by  the  house  or  the 
offspring  of  the  white  race  without  that  call  of  the 
red  heart  for  vengeance  being  too  strong  for  the  hand 
to  resist. 

Through  the  late  winter,  whether  through  storms 
or  floods  or  the  schemes  of  men,  on  one  of  the  reserva 
tions  to  the  south  the  rations  had  not  been  forthcom 
ing;  and  from  week  to  week  excuses  were  given  that 
were  no  longer  listened  to  with  credence  by  the  Indians. 
In  vain  were  visits  made,  first  to  the  agency, 
next  to  the  nearest  fort,  supplicating  for  their 
rights.  One  delegation  after  another  turned  back 
from  those  visits  unsatisfied,  told  by  the  first 
that  the  rations  would  be  distributed  when  they 
arrived,  not  before;  told  by  the  second  that  the  War 
Department  was  not  in  any  way  responsible  for 
deficiencies  of  the  Department  of  the  Interior,  and 
could  not  interfere — at  the  same  time  advising  them 
to  be  patient,  as  eventually  their  wants  would  be  satis 
fied.  Eventually!  and  in  the  meantime  they  could  go 
back  to  their  tribes  and  eat  their  horses,  their  dogs, 
and  see  their  people  grow  weak  as  the  children  for  the 
want  of  food. 

Small  wonder  if  one  group  after  another  of  the  younger 
braves,  and  even  the  older  warriors,  broke  loose  from 
the  promise  of  peace  and  joined  the  hostile  bands  that 
thieved  along  the  border,  sweeping  the  outlying  ranches 
of  horses  and  cattle,  and  beating  a  retreat  back  into 
the  hills  with  their  booty. 

Of  course,  the  rations  arrived  eventually,  and  were 
distributed  by  those  fair-minded  personages  whose 
honest  dealing  with  the  red  man  is  proverbial  along 


144  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

the  border;  but  the  provisions  came  too  late  to  stem 
the  tide  of  secession  that  had  set  in,  and  the  War  Depart 
ment  had  found  that,  after  all,  it  would  be  influ 
enced  by  the  actions  of  the  Department  of  the 
Interior,  and  that  its  interference  was  demanded  for 
the  protection  of  the  homes  on  the  frontier.  As  the 
homes  were  the  homes  of  white  citizens,  its  action  was, 
of  course,  one  of  promptness.  White  men's  votes  decide 
who  shall  continue  to  sit  in  the  high  places  of  the  land, 
or  who  shall  step  down  and  out  to  .make  way  for  the  new 
man  of  new  promises. 

But  they  found  ordinary  methods  of  war  were  of  little 
avail  against  the  scattered  bands,  who,  like  bees  in  the 
summer-time,  divided  their  swarms,  and  honey-combed 
the  hills,  knowing  every  retreat,  and  posted  as  to  every 
movement  by  Indian  runners  and  kindred  left  behind. 

It  was  simply  a  war  of  skirmishing,  and  one  not 
likely  soon  to  cease.  Reinforcements  came  to  the 
hostile  tribes  from  all  the  worthless  outlaws  of  the 
border — some  of  white,  others  of  mixed  blood;  and 
from  those  mongrels  resulted  the  more  atrocious  feat 
ures  of  the  outbreak.  They  fought  and  schemed 
with  the  Indian  because  they  wanted  his  protection, 
and  any  proposed  treaty  for  peace  was  argued  against 
by  them  most  vehemently.  And  while  an  Indian 
makes  a  good  thief,  a  half-breed  makes  a  better;  but 
the  white  man,  if  his  taste  runs  in  that  direction,  is 
an  artist,  and  to  him  his  red  brother  is  indebted  for 
much  teaching  in  the  subtle  art  through  many  genera 
tions. 

That,  and  like  accomplishments,  made  them  com 
rades  to  be  desired  by  the  tribes  who  depended  for 
their  subsistence  on  the  country  guarded  by  troops; 
and  scientific  methods  of  thievery  were  resorted  to, 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  145 

methods  that  required  the  superior  brain  and  the  white 
face  of  the  Caucasian. 

Thus  was  the  trouble  fostered,  and  the  contagion 
spread,  until  far-off  tribes,  hearing  of  it,  missed  now 
one,  now  another,  of  their  more  restless  spirits;  and 
the  white  authorities  found  it  would  not  do  to  trust 
to  the  peace  of  any  of  the  nations — the  only  surety 
was  to  guard  it.  This  they  tried  to  do,  locating  posts 
and  stationing  troops  near  even  the  most  peaceable 
tribes — their  presence  suggesting  the  advisability  of 
remaining  so. 

And,  now  through  one,  now  another,  and  generally 
by  MacDougall,  the  people  at  the  ranch  heard  at 
times  of  the  Arrow  and  of  Genesee.  They  were  with  the 
troops,  and  were  together;  and  the  latter's  knowledge 
of  Indian  tactics  was  counting  much  in  his  favor  evi 
dently,  as  his  opinions  were  cited  in  the  reports  and 
prophecies  of  results,  and  his  influence  had  decided 
more  than  one  movement  of  the  campaign  that  had  won 
him  the  commendation  of  his  superior  officers — cir 
cumstances  that  were,  of  course,  discussed  pro  and  con 
by  the  people  of  the  Kootenai.  There  was  little  of 
local  news  in  so  isolated  a  place,  and  Rachel  declared 
they  were  all  developing  into  gossips  because  of  the 
avidity  with  which  the  slightest  of  events  in  their  own 
region  was  talked  over;  and  of  course  the  Indian  ques 
tion  was  an  all-absorbing  topic,  and  to  Aunty  Luce 
was  attended  by  a  sort  of  paralysis  of  terror.  In  vain 
to  point  out  the  friendly  listlessness  of  the  Kootenais, 
their  nearest  neighbors  of  the  red  race,  for  the  Koo 
tenais  were  simple  hunters  or  fishers,  making  war  on 
none,  unless  now  and  then  a  detachment  of  thieving 
Blackfeet  from  east  of  the  mountains  would  file  through 
the  old  Flathead  Pass  and  run  off  portions  of  their 

10 


146  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

stock ;  in  the  time  of  the  fishing,  the  greater  part  of  the 
village  would  move  for  the  season  away  from  their 
pasture-lands,  in  search  of  the  fish  that  they  smoke, 
dry,  and  pack  in  osier  baskets  for  the  winter.  It  was 
generally  during  that  temporary  flitting  that  a  visit 
from  those  neighboring  tribes  would  be  made,  and  an 
assessment  levied,  to  the  extent  of  all  loose  cattle  in 
reach,  and  an  occasional  squaw  now  and  then.  And 
so,  though  the  Kootenais  were  on  the  most  friendly 
terms  with  the  few  whites  about  them,  their  relations 
with  their  red  brethren  on  the  east,  and  across  the  line 
in  the  Northwest  Territories  were  decidedly  strained. 

But  it  was  useless  to  talk  "good  Indian"  to  Aunty 
who  was  afraid  to  stay  in  the  house  or  out  of  it ;  afraid 
to  start  back  to  Kentucky,  yet  sure  that  delay  meant 
death.  And  all  through  the  summer,  let  the  rest  have 
faith  if  they  chose,  yet  the  baby's  wardrobe  and  her 
own  were  always  packed  ready  for  flight  at  the  first 
sign  of  danger. 

With  this  one  exception,  the  Indian  question  troubled 
the  people  at  the  ranch  but  little.  They  found  too 
many  duties  in  the  new  country  to  take  up  their  time 
and  attention.  The  sheep-raising  experiment  showed 
signs  of  such  thorough  success  that  it  would  require 
more  than  the  skirmishing  of  the  races  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles  away  to  disenchant  Hardy  with  the 
country;  and  where  he  was  content,  Tillie  was,  of  course; 
and  Rachel — well,  Rachel  was  deemed  a  sort  of  vaga 
bond  in  regard  to  a  settlement  anywhere.  She  was 
satisfied  with  any  place  where  the  fences  were  not  too 
high,  or  the  limits  of  her  range  too  narrow. 

She  often  wondered  that  the  world  in  general  knew 
so  little  of  that  beautiful  corner  of  the  earth.  She 
knew  that  people  flocked  to  "resorts"  that  possessed 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  147 

not  at  all  the  wealth  of  beauties  that  whimsical  nature 
had  scattered  on  those  Indian  hills. 

In  the  fall,  about  a  year  after  the  cultus  corrie,  she 
began  to  think  that,  after  all,  they  might  meet 
with  deserved  appreciation  some  day,  for  one  man 
rode  up  to  them,  not  for  stock,  or  to  locate  land,  or  for 
any  of  the  few  reasons  that  brought  people  to  the  Koo- 
tenai  country,  but  simply  and  only  for  pleasure  and 
rest — so  he  said. 

It  was  in  late  September,  and  as  he  rode  leisurely 
through  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  pines,  and  along  the 
passionate,  restless  path  of  some  mountain  stream,  his 
expressive  face  showed  a  more  than  casual  interest  in 
the  prodigality  of  delightful  vistas  and  the  impressive 
grandeur  of  the  mountains,  as  they  loomed  about  him 
or  slowly  drifted  beneath  him. 

All  the  beauty  of  autumn  was  around  him,  yet  he 
himself  looked  like  one  of  the  people  who  belong  only 
to  summer,  judging  from  his  eager  eyes  and  the  boy 
ish  laugh  that  broke  on  the  still  air  as  he  watched  the 
pranks  of  some  squirrels  making  holiday  in  their  own 
domain. 

Not  that  the  stranger  was  so  young.  He  was  not  a 
boy  in  years;  but  the  spirit  of  youth,  that  remains  so 
long  with  some  natures,  shone  in  his  glance,  and  loitered 
about  the  sensitive  mouth.  In  seeing  him  smile,  one 
would  forget  the  thread  of  premature  silver  that  shone 
through  the  bronze  of  his  hair.  He  was  almost  beauti 
ful  in  face:  yet  his  stature,  which  was  much  above  the 
average,  and  his  exceptionally  complete  proportions, 
saved  him  from  the  beauty  that  is  effeminate ;  but  what 
ever  beauty  he  possessed,  however,  was  in  every  way 
refined. 

It  was  noon  when  stragglers  of  sheep  met  his  gaze, 


148  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

dotting  with  white  the  green  and  amber  grasses  of  the 
great  park,  and  showing,  as  he  forded  Missoula  Creek, 
a  picture  before  him,  framed  in  the  high  wall  of  the 
hills,  and  restful  with  pastoral  peace  that  was  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  untamable  wilds  through  which  he  had 
passed. 

"Almost  there,"  he  whispered  eagerly,  as  he  rode 
along  the  corrals  and  was  greeted  by  a  tumbling  lot  of 
sheep-dogs.  "Will  it  be  of  use?" 

Before  he  reached  the  gate  he  was  met  by  Hardy, 
who,  bare-headed,  had  left  the  dinner-table  to  welcome 
a  visitor  whom,  from  the  porch,  all  had  decided  was  a 
stranger. 

The  host  scattered  the  dogs.  There  were  a  few 
words,  a  shake  of  hands,  and  they  could  hear  Hardy's 
hearty  invitation  to  dismount. 

Meanwhile,  Aunty  Luce  was  bustling  about  as  fast 
as  her  stout,  short  form  would  allow  her,  arranging  a 
place  at  the  table  for  the  late  guest,  and  thanking  her 
stars  that  a  real  gentleman  was  to  be  company  for  them 
once  more — her  opinion  that  he  was  a  gentleman  hav 
ing  foundation  in  the  fact  that  he  wore  ' '  store-clothes ' ' 
instead  of  the  trappings  of  buckskin  affected  by  the 
natives  of  the  Kootenai. 

They  found  he  was  possessed  of  more  decided  points 
due  the  idea  of  a  gentleman,  both  in  breeding 
and  education,  and  before  many  remarks  were 
exchanged,  the  rest  of  the  family,  as  well  as  Aunty, 
were  congratulating  themselves  on  this  acquisition 
from  the  world. 

"Yes,  I  am  altogether  a  stranger  up  here,"  he  said 
pleasantly,  in  answer  to  a  query;  "and  at  Holland's  they 
told  me  there  was  one  of  my  Statesmen  up  in  this 


Before  he  reached  the  gate  he  was  met  by  Hardy.     Page  148, 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  149 

park;  so  I  asked  the  way  and  started  west,  instead  of 
north,  as  I  had  thought  of  doing." 

"Doing  a  bit  o'  prospectin',  then?"  was  MacDou- 
gall's  query. 

It  was  a  visiting-day  of  his,  and  he  had  been  watching 
the  new-comer's  face  with  scrutinizing  eyes  ever  since 
the  first  words  of  self -introduction,  in  which  the  visitor's 
name  had  been  overlooked. 

"Well — yes,"  answered  the  other  slowly,  as  if  he  was 
not  decided,  or  had  not  anticipated  the  question. 

"I  thought  as  much,  since  ye  carry  no  hunting  gear," 
remarked  the  trapper;  "and  in  this  country  a  man  is 
likely  to  be  the  one  thing  or  the  other." 

"And  in  this  case  it  is  the  other,"  smiled  the  stranger, 
"as  I  have  not  as  yet  found  any  vocation;  I  have  come 
out  here  to  forget  I  ever  had  one — prospecting  for  a 
rest.'" 

"Well,  there  is  plenty  of  room  here  to  rest  in,"  said 
Hardy  hospitably. 

"Yes,  or  work  in,"  added  Rachel;  "and  a  new  country 
needs  the  workers." 

Tillie  threw  an  admonishing  glance  as  payment  for 
the  uncivil  speech,  and  the  stranger  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  the  speaker.  The  contour  of  her  face  must 
have  been  pleasing,  since  he  looked  at  it  interestedly, 
as  if  forgetting  in  its  contemplation  the  words  uttered; 
and  then — 

"Indeed?"  he  said  at  last.  "Well,  who  knows  but 
that  I  may  develop  into  a  worker;  is  industry  con 
tagious  here?" 

And  Rachel,  whose  tone  had  been  more  uncivil  than 
her  intention,  felt  herself  put  at  a  disadvantage  by  the 
suavity  that  was  not  a  feature  of  Kootenai  character. 

" Indeed,  then,"  said  MacDougall,  "it's  gettin'  to  be  a 


150  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 

brisk,  busy  country  these  late  days,  an'  ye  canna  go  a 
matter  o'  twenty  mile  without  tiippin'  up  on  a  settle 
ment.  An'  ye  come  from  Holland's  without  a  guide? 
That's  pretty  good  for  a  stranger  in  the  parts,  as  I 
doubt  na  ye  be,  Mr.—  And  he  stopped  suggestively. 

The  stranger  laughed,  and  drew  a  card  from  his 
pocket. 

"I  told  Mr.  Hardy  my  name  at  the  gate,"  he  observed, 
"but  evidently  it  escaped  his  memory;  he  introduced 
me  only  as  a  stranger." 

"It  does  not  matter,  however,  what  a  man  is  called 
out  here,"  returned  Hardy.  "It  is  the  man  that  is 
valued  in  the  West — not  the  name  given  him;  now, 
back  home  they  weighed  about  equal." 

"And  in  my  country,"  said  MacDougall,  looking  up 
from  the  card,  "here's  a  name  that  would  carry  ye 
many  a  mile,  an'  bespeak  ye  good-will  from  many  an 
old  heart— Charles  Stuart.  It's  a  name  to  take  unco' 
good  care  of,  my  man." 

"I  try  to  take  good  care  of  the  owner  of  it,  at  all 
events,"  answered  the  stranger;  "but  it  is  not  an 
uncommon  name  in  America;  there  are  few  parts  of 
the  country  in  which  I  am  not  able  to  find  a  name 
sake." 

"Indeed,  then,  an'  I  have  run  across  none  o'  the 
name  these  seven  odd  year,"  said  MacDougall;  "an' 
then  it  .was  a  man  in  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains,  who 
spelt  it  with  the  'e-w'  instead  of  the  'u,'  an'  had  never 
e'en  heard  tell  o'  Prince  Charlie." 

"And  you  have  known  no  one  in  tuis  country  by  the 
name  of  Stuart?"  asked  the  stranger,  his  eyes  seeming 
to  watch  at  the  same  time  both  Hardy  and  the  old  man. 
Ivans  and  Jim  had  left  the  table  and  lounged  out  to  the 
stables  to  smoke. 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  151 

"No,"  answered  Hardy;  "we  are  comparatively  new 
comers  here,  but  all  the  settlers  within  a  radius  of 
fifty  miles  are  already  known  to  us  by  name — it  is  not 
so  difficult  where  white  men  are  so  scarce;  and  I  have 
never  heard  of  any  Stuarts  among  them." 

"Then  I  have  dropped  literally  into  a  strange  coun 
try,"  said  Stuart,  rising  and  walking  to  the  end  of  the 
porch;  "and  from  what  I  have  seen  of  it,  a  decidedly 
interesting  one.  Hunting  good?" 

"Excellent,"  returned  Hardy.  "We've  been  too 
busy  to  get  to  the  hills  so  far  this  year,  but  now  we  have 
a  little  breathing-spell,  and  if  you  would  care  to  try 
your  luck  with  game,  I  should  take  pleasure  in  showing 
you  our  hunting  grounds." 

"That  is  certainly  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Stuart 
heartily,  "and  I  will  accept  the  offer  most  gratefully. 
The  fact  is,  I've  been  rather  used  up  with  a  profes 
sional  life,  and  was  in  hopes  a  trip  up  through  this 
country  would  set  me  on  my  feet  again.  Over  there  at 
Holland's  they  told  me  about  you  and  your  family, 
and — ' ' 

"Yes,"  completed  Hardy,  "a  man  with  his  family 
and  household  goods  up  in  these  hills  is  a  marked  indi 
vidual;  but  my  wife  and  cousin  do  not  rebel  at  the 
exile;  they  are  both  philosophers,  in  their  way." 

"Yes?"  and  Stuart's  agreement  had  the  intonation 
of  a  man  who  hears,  but  ceases  to  grasp  the  sense  of 
words.  Some  closer  thought  seemed  present  with 
him.  He  glanced  at  Hardy,  a  swift,  quickly  with 
drawn  scrutiny,  and  then  said:  "Do  you  know, 
Mr.  Hardy,  I  should  like  to  propose  myself  for  mem 
bership  in  your  household  for  a  few  weeks;  would 
it  be  deemed  an  impertinence?  I  can't  stay  at 
Holland  Centre  with  any  comfort,  and  this  place  of 


152  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

yours  seems  to  be  a  haven  of  rest.  Could  you  give  me 
space  to  live  in  for  a  while,  without  my  being  a  nuisance 
to  the  establishment?" 

"Yes,  and  welcome,"  answered  Hardy.  "You  don't 
seem  to  appreciate  what  a  treat  it  is  to  have  a  visitor 
from  civilization  ride  our  way;  and  one  from  our  old 
State  is  especially  in  demand.  I  was  going  to  propose 
that  you  move  your  outfit  up  here  and  make  the  ranch 
your  headquarters  while  in  the  country.  A  nuisance! 
No,  sir." 

And  thus  was  the  simple  ceremony  concluded  that 
introduced  this  stranger  to  the  Hardy s,  to  the  general 
satisfaction  of  all  concerned.  Rachel  was  the  only  mem 
ber  who  did  not  seem  especially  delighted. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  clever  and  entertaining,"  she  agreed 
to  Tillie,  "and  his  manner  is  so  charmingly  insinuating 
that  I  may  end  by  falling  in  love  with  him;  but  I  am 
beginning  with  an  unreasonable  desire  to  say  snappy 
things  to  him." 

"I  should  say  it  was  unreasonable — a  thorough 
gentleman,  of  fine  family  connections.  He  mentioned 
several  Kentucky  families  that  Hen  might  know  what 
his  standing  was  back  home,  and  his  profession  is 
that  of  medicine — I  noticed  the  M.  D.  on  his  card; 
and  altogether  I  can  not  see  what  ground  you  have  for 
objecting." 

"I  am  not  objecting — bless  the  man!  no,"  returned 
Rachel;  "only,  because  a  man  has  acquired  a  charming 
manner  and  possesses  a  handsome  face  is  no  reason 
for  me  devoting  myself  to  admiration  of  him,  like 
Aunty  Luce.  She  is  jubilant  over  having  so  fine  a 
gentleman  to  wait  on.  You  are  discreetly  elated  over 
having  so  charming  a  person  to  entertain;  even  Miss 
Margaret  (Miss  Margaret  was  the  baby) — everything 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  153 

feminine  about  the  place  has  succumbed.  And  I  sup 
pose  my  reason  for  keeping  on  my  own  side  of  the 
fence  is  that  I'm  jealous.  I  am  no  longer  first  in  the 
affections  of  anyone  about  the  place.  MacDougall  is 
likely  to  swear  allegiance  at  any  time  because  his 
name  is  Stuart — and,  above  all,  Charlie  Stuart;  even 
Jim  is  wavering  in  the  balance,  and  shows  a  wonderful 
alacrity  in  anticipating  the  wishes  of  this  tenderfoot. 
Is  it  any  wonder  I  rebel?" 

"Well,  for  the  comfort  of  the  rest  of  us,  do  not  begin 
a  civil  war,"  admonished  Tillie,  and  was  only  reassured 
by  a  promise  that  there  should  be  no  active  hostilities. 
"If  you  are  more  comfortable  in  war  than  in  peace, 
go  south  and  fight  with  the  skirmishing  Indians," 
suggested  the  little  woman. 

"I  will,"  said  Rachel.  "If  you  get  any  more  civilized 
recruits  up  here  to  make  the  place  tame  and  common 
place,  I  will  seek  service  under  the  standard  of  the 
Arrow,  or  Genesee."  And  at  the  mention  of  the  last 
name  Tillie  discreetly  subsided. 

The  girl  found  the  raw  recruit  rapidly  making  him 
self  a  power  in  the  social  world  of  the  ranch.  There 
was  something  of  charming  grace  in  the  man's  person 
ality;  and  that  rare  gift  of  a  sympathetic  nature  that 
had  also  the  faculty  of  expression,  at  once  accorded 
him  the  trust  of  women  and  children. 

It  may  be  that  a  degree  of  physical  beauty  influenced 
them  also,  for  his  fine,  well-shaped  head  was  very  good 
to  look  at;  the  poise  of  the  erect,  tall  figure  bespoke 
serene  self-confidence;  the  curves  of  his  lips,  slightly 
hidden  by  a  mustache,  gave  a  sweetness  of  expression 
to  the  lower  part  of  his  face;  while  the  wide  brows  and 
fine  eyes  gave  an  intellectual  cast  to  a  personality  that 
did  not  lack  attractive  points. 


154  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"The  lad  has  the  old  grace  o'  the  Stuarts,"  Mac- 
Dougall  affirmed,  sticking  to  his  fancy  of  connecting 
the  old  blood-royal  with  the  slip  of  the  name  grown 
on  alien  ground.  "  And  it  is  much  the  same  free-handed 
manner  o'  the  old  stock — free  o'  their  smiles,  an'  win 
ning  o'  hearts  by  the  clasp  o'  the  hand;  but  there's  a  bit 
about  this  one  that  is  a  rare  puzzle  to  me.  I  think 
like  enough  it's  the  eyes,  they're  main  handsome  ones; 
but  I'm  always  a-rackin'  o'  my  brains  to  tell  where  I've 
seen  them  before." 

Rachel,  to  whom  this  speech  was  made,  only 
laughed. 

"He  has  never  been  West  until  now,  so  you  can  not 
have  seen  them,"  she  argued;  but  her  tone  made  the 
old  man  regard  her  with  attention. 

"What  do  ye  mean  by  that,  lass?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  only  he  says  so;"  and  then  she  went 
into  the  house,  leaving  her  guest  sitting  on  the  bench 
of  the  porch. 

"The  Stuart,"  as  the  others  had  already  dropped  into 
calling  him,  after  MacDougall,  had  been  at  the  ranch 
about  a  week.  The  proposed  hunt  was  yet  to  be;  and 
in  the  meantime  he  rode  through  the  parks,  and  saw 
all  that  was  near-about  the  ranch.  He  talked  stock 
raising  with  Hardy,  medicinal  herbs  with  Aunty  Luce, 
babies  with  Tillie,  and  with  Rachel  numerous  worldly 
topics  of  interest,  that,  however,  never  seemed  to  change 
the  nature  of  their  acquaintance;  which  remained 
much  as  it  was  the  first  day— on  her  side,  arms  bur 
nished  and  ready  for  action;  on  his,  the  serene  gen 
tleness  of  manner,  almost  a  caress,  a  changeless  good- 
humor  that  spoke  volumes  for  his  disposition,  and 
at  times  forced  even  her  into  a  sort  of  admiration  of 
him. 


A  RECRUIT  FROM  THE  WORLD.  155 

The  health-recruiting  trip  he  had  come  on,  he  was 
evidently  taking  advantage  of,  for  he  almost  lived 
out-of-doors,  and  looked  wonderfully  healthy  and 
athletic  for  an  invalid.  In  the  house,  he  wrote  a  great 
deal.  But  the  morning  Rachel  left  MacDougall  on 
the  porch,  the  Stuart  came  sauntering  up  the  path,  the 
picture  of  careless  content  with  himself  and  the  world. 
"Where  has  Mr.  Hardy  gone?"  he  inquired,  seating 
himself  on  the  porch.  "I've  been  looking  for  him  out 
at  the  pens  but  the  men  have  all  disappeared." 

"Gone  up  the  range  for  the  yearlin's  that  strayed  off 
the  last  week;  but  they'll  no  go  far." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  Hardy  about  mail  out  here. 
How  often  is  it  brought  to  the  ranch?" 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  between  the  puffs  of  his 
pipe,  "that  depends  a  bit  on  how  often  it  is  sent  for; 
just  whene'er  they're  a  bit  slack  o'  work,  or  if  anybody 
o'  them  wants  the  trip  made  special;  but  Hardy  will 
be  sendin'  Jimmy  across  for  it,  if  it's  any  favor  to  you— 
be  sure  o'  that  " 

"Oh,  for  that  matter — I  seem  to  be  the  most  useless 
commodity  about  the  ranch — I  could  make  the  trip 
myself.  Is  Jim  the  usual  mail-carrier?" 

Well,  I  canna  say;  Andrews,  a  new  man  here,  goes 
sometimes,  but  it's  no  rare  thing  for  him  to  come  home 
carrying  more  weight  in  whisky  than  in  the  letters,  an' 
Hardy  got  a  bit  tired  o'  that." 

"But  haven't  you  a  regular  mail-carrier  for  this  part 
of  the  country?"  persisted  Stuart. 

MacDougall  laughed  shortly  at  the  idea.  "Who'd 
be  paying  the  post?"  he  asked,  "with  but  the  Hardys 
an'  myself,  ye  might  say,  barring  the  Kootenais;  an' 
I  have  na  heard  that  they  know  the  use  of  a  postage 
stamp." 


156  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"But  someone  of  their  tribe  does  come  to  the  Centre 
for  mail,"  continued  Stuart  in  half  argument — "an 
Indian  youth ;  have  you  never  seen  him  ? ' ' 

"From  the  Kootenais?  Well,  I  have  not,  then.  It 
may  be,  of  late,  there  are  white  men  among  them,  but 
canna  say;  I  see  little  o'  any  o'  them  this  long  time." 

"And  know  no  other  white  people  in  this  region?" 

"  No,  lad,  not  for  a  long  time,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
a  half  sigh. 

The  listener  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  think,"  he  said,  as 
if  a  prospect  of  new  interest  had  suddenly  been  awak 
ened  in  his  mind — "I  think  I  should  like  to  make  a 
trip  up  into  the  country  of  the  Kootenais  It  is  not 
very  far,  I  believe,  and  would  be  a  new  experience. 
Yes,  if  I  could  get  a  guide,  I  would  go." 

"Well,"  said  MacDougall  drily,  "seeing  I've  lived 
next  door  to  the  Kootenais  for  some  time,  I  might  be 
able  to  take  ye  a  trip  that  way  myself." 

Rachel,  writing  inside  the  window,  heard  the  conver 
sation,  and  smiled  to  herself. 

"Strange  that  Kalitan  should  have  slipped  MacDou- 
gall's  memory,"  she  thought;  "but  then  he  may  have 
been  thinking  only  of  the  present,  and  the  Stuart,  of 
months  back.  So  he  does  know  some  things  of  people 
in  the  Kootenai,  for  all  his  blind  ignorance.  And  he 
would  have  learned  more,  if  he  had  not  been  so  clever 
and  waited  until  the  rest  were  gone,  to  question.  I 
wonder  what  he  is  hunting  for  in  this  country;  I  don't 
believe  it  is  four-footed  game." 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  157 

CHAPTER  III. 

AT    CROSS-PURPOSES. 

"Their  tricks  and  craft  ha'  put  me  daft, 
They've  taen  me  in,  and  a'  that." 

"And  so  you  got  back  unharmed  from  the  midst  of 
the  hostiles?"  asked  Rachel  in  mock  surprise,  when, 
a  week  later,  Hardy,  Stuart,  and  MacDougall  returned 
from  their  pilgrimage,  bringing  with  them  specimens 
of  deer  they  had  sighted  on  their  return. 

"Hostiles  is  about  the  last  name  to  apply  to  them, 
I  should  imagine,"  remarked  Stuart;  "they  are  as  peace 
able  as  sheep." 

"But  they  can  fight,  too,"  said  MacDougall,  "an' 
used  to  be  reckoned  hard  customers  to  meet;  but  the 
Blackfeet  ha'  well-nigh  been  the  finish  o'  them.  The 
last  o'  their  war-chiefs  is  an  old,  old  man  now,  an' 
there's  small  chance  that  any  other  will  ever  walk  in 
his  moccasins." 

"I've  been  told  something  of  the  man's  character," 
said  Rachel,  "but  have  forgotten  his  name— Bald 
Eagle?" 

"Grey  Eagle.  An'  there's  more  character  in  him 
worth  the  tellin'  of  than  you'll  find  -in  any  Siwash  in 
these  parts.  I  doubt  na  Genesee  told  you  tales  o'  him. 
He  took  a  rare,  strange  liking  to  Genesee  from  the  first- 
made  him  some  presents,  an'  went  through  a  bit  o' 
ceremony  by  which  they  adopt  a  warrior." 

"Was  this  Genesee  of  another  tribe?"  asked  Stuart, 
who  was  always  attentive  to  any  information  of  the 
natives. 


158  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Yes,"  said  Rachel  quickly,  anticipating  the  others, 
"of  a  totally  different  tribe — one  of  the  most  extensive 
in  America  at  present." 

"A  youth?     A  half -breed?" 

"No,"  she  replied;  "an  older  man  than  you,  and  of 
pure  blood.  Hen,  there  is  Miss  Margaret  pummeling 
the  window  for  you  to  notice  her.  Davy  MacDougall, 
did  you  bring  me  nothing  at  all  as  a  relic  of  your  trip? 
Well,  I  must  say  times  are  changing  when  you  forget 
me  for  an  entire  week." 

Both  the  men  looked  a  little  amused  at  Rachel's 
truthful  yet  misleading  replies,  and  thinking  it  just 
one  of  her  freaks,  did  not  interfere,  though  it  was 
curious  to  them  both  that  Stuart,  living  among  them 
so  many  days,  had  not  heard  Genesee  mentioned  before. 
But  no  late  news  coming  from  the  southern  posts, 
had  made  the  conversations  of  their  troops  flag  some 
what;  while  Stuart,  coming  into  their  circle,  brought 
new  interests,  new  topics,  that  had  for  the  while  super 
seded  the  old,  and  Genesee's  absence  of  a  year  had 
made  them  count  him  no  longer  as  a  neighbor  Then 
it  may  be  that,  ere  this,  Rachel  had  warded  off  atten 
tion  from  the  subject.  She  scarcely  could  explain 
to  herself  why  she  did  it — it  was  an  instinctive  impulse 
in  the  beginning;  and  sometimes  she  laughed  at  herself 
for  the  folly  of  it. 

"Never  mind,"  she  would  reassure  herself  by  saying, 
"even  if  I  am  wrong,  I  harm  no  one  with  the  fancy; 
and  I  have  just  enough  curiosity  to  make  me  wonder 
what  that  man's  real  business  is  in  these  wilds,  for  he 
is  not  nearly  so  careless  as  his  manner,  and  not  nearly 
so  light-hearted  as  his  laugh." 

"Well,  did  you  find  any  white  men  among  the  Koo- 
tenais?"  she  asked  him  abruptly,  the  day  of  his  return, 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  159 

His  head,  bent  that  Miss  Margaret  could  amuse  her 
self  with  it,  as  a  toy  of  immense  interest,  raised  sud 
denly.  Much  in  the  girl's  tone  and  manner  to  him  was 
at  times  suggestive;  this  was  one  of  the  times.  His 
usually  pale  face  was  flushed  from  his  position,  and 
his  rumpled  hair  gave  him  a  totally  different  appear 
ance  as  he  turned  on  her  a  look  half-compelling  in  its 
direct  regard. 

"What  made  you  ask  that?"  he  demanded,  in  a  tone 
that  matched  the  eyes. 

She  laughed ;  to  see  him  throw  off  his  guard  of  gracious 
suavity  was  victory  enough  for  one  day. 

"My  feminine  curiosity  prompted  the  question,"  she 
replied  easily.  ' '  Did  you  ? ' ' 

"No,"  he  returned,  after  a  rather  steady  look  at  her; 
"none  that  you  could  call  men." 
"A  specimen,  then?" 

"Heaven  help  the  race,  if  the  one  I  saw  was  accepted 
as  a  specimen,"  he  answered  fervently;  "a  filthy, 
unkempt  individual,  living  on  the  outskirts  of  the  vil 
lage,  and  much  more  degraded  than  any  Indian  I  met; 
but  he  had  a  squaw  wife." 

"Yes,  the  most  of  them  have — wives  or  slaves." 
"Slaves?"  he  asked  incredulously. 
"Actually  slaves,  though  they  do  not  bring  the  high 
prices  we  used  to  ask  for  those  of  darker  skin  in  the 
South.     Emancipation  has  not  made  much  progress  up 
here.     It  is  too  much  an  unknown  corner  as  yet." 

"Is  it  those  of  inferior  tribes  that  are  bartered,  or 
prisoners  taken  in  battle?" 

"No,  I  believe  not,  necessarily,"  she  replied,  "though 
I  suppose  such  a  windfall  would  be  welcomed;  but 
if  there  happens  to  be  any  superfluous  members  in 
a  family,  it  is  a  profitable  way  to  dispose  of  them, 


160  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

among  some  of  the  Columbia  Basin  Indians,  anyway. 
Davy  MacDougall  can  give  you  more  information  than 
I,  as  most  of  my  knowledge  is  second-hand.  But 
I  believe  this  tribe  of  the  Kootenais  is  a  grade 
above  that  sort  of  traffic — I  mean  bartering  their  own 
kindred." 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  here,  Miss  Rachel?' 
he  asked,  as  abruptly  as  she  had  questioned  him  of  the 
white  men. 

"About  a  year— a  little  over." 

"And  you  like  it?" 

"Yes;  I  like  it." 

In  response  to  several  demands,  he  had  enthroned 
Miss  Margaret  on  his  lap  by  this  time;  and  even  there 
she  was  not  contented.  His  head  seemed  to  have  a 
special  fascination  for  her  babyship;  and  she  had  such 
an  insinuating  way  of  snuggling  upward  that  she  was 
soon  close  in  his  arms,  her  hands  in  easy  reach  of  his 
hair,  which  she  did  not  pull  in  infantile  fashion,  but 
dallied  with,  and  patted  caressingly.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  fact  that  Stuart  was  prime  favorite 
here  at  all  events;  and  the  affection  was  not  one-sided 
by  any  means — unless  the  man  was  a  thorough  actor. 
His  touch,  his  voice  even,  acquired  a  caressing  way 
when  Miss  Margaret  was  to  be  pleased  or  appeased. 
Rachel,  speaking  to  Tillie  of  it,  wondered  if  his  attrac 
tion  was  to  children  in  general  or  to  this  one  in  particular; 
and  holding  the  baby  so  that  her  soft,  pink  cheek  was 
against  his  own,  he  seemed  ruminating  over  the  girl's 
replies,  and  after  a  little — 

"Yes,  you  must,  of  course,"  he  said  thoughtfully; 
"else  you  could  never  make  yourself  seem  so  much  a 
part  of  it  as  you  do/' 

During   the  interval   of   silence   the   girl's   thoughts 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  161 

had  been  wandering.     She  had  lost  the  slight  thread  of 
their  former  topic,  and  looked  a  little  at  sea. 

"A  part  of  what?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  the  life  here.  You  seem  as  if  you  had  always 
belonged  to  it — a  bit  of  local  color  in  harmony  with  the 
scenes  about  us." 

"How  flattering! — charmingly  expressed!"  murmered 
Miss  Hardy  derisively.  "A  bit  of  local  color?  Then, 
according  to  Mr.  Stuart's  impressions  I  may  look  for 
ward  to  finding  myself  catalogued  among  greasy  squaws 
and  picturesque  squaw  men." 

"You  seem  to  take  a  great  deal  of  delight  in  turning 
all  I  say  or  do  into  ridicule,"  he  observed.  "You  do 
it  on  the  principle  of  the  country  that  guys  a  'tender 
foot';  and  that  is  just  one  of  the  things  that  stamp 
you  as  belonging  to  the  life  here.  I  try  to  think  of 
you  as  a  Kentucky  girl  transplanted,  but  even  the 
fancy  eludes  me.  You  impress  one  as  belonging  to 
this  soil,  and  more  than  that,  showing  a  disposition  to 
freeze  out  new-comers." 

"  I  haven't  frozen  you  out." 

"No — thanks  to  my  temperament  that  refuses  to  con 
geal.  I  did  not  leave  all  my  warmth  in  the  South." 

"Meaning  that  I  did?-" 

"Meaning  that  you,  for  some  reason,  appear  to  have 
done  so." 

"Dear  me,  what  a  subtle  personage  you  make  of 
me!  Come  here,  Margaret;  this  analyst  is  likely  to 
prejudice  you  against  your  only  auntie." 

"Let  her  be  with  me,"  he  said  softly,  as  the  baby's 
big  blue  eyes  turned  toward  Rachel,  and  then  were 
screened  by  heavy,  white  lids;  "she  is  almost  asleep 
—little  darling.  Is  she  not  a  picture?  See  how  she 
clings  to  my  finger — so  tightly;"  and  then  he  dropped 

11 


162  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

his  face  until  his  lips  touched  the  soft  cheek.  ''It  is  a 
child  to  thank  God  for,"  he  said  lovingly. 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  thrill  of 
feeling  in  his  tones. 

"You  spoke  like  a  woman  just  then,"  she  said,  her 
own  voice  changed  slightly;  "like  a — a  mother — a 
parent." 

"Did  I?"  he  asked,  and  arose  with  the  child  in  his 
arms  to  deliver  it  to  Aunty  Luce.  "Perhaps  I  felt  so; 
is  that  weakness  an  added  cause  for  trying  to  bar  me 
out  from  the  Kootenai  hills  ? ' ' 

But  he  walked  away  without  giving  her  a  chance  to 
reply. 

She  saw  nothing  more  of  him  until  evening,  and 
then  he  was  rather  quiet,  sitting  beside  Tillie  and  Miss 
Margaret,  with  occasional  low-toned  remarks  to  them, 
but  not  joining  in  the  general  conversation. 

"What  a  queer  remark  that  was  for  a  man  to  make! " 
thought  Rachel,  looking  at  him  across  the  room; — "a 
young  man  especially";  and  that  started  her  to  think 
ing  of  his  age,  about  which  people  would  have  widely 
different  opinions.  To  see  him  sometimes,  laughing 
and  joking  with  the  rest,  he  looked  a  boy  of  twenty. 
To  hear  him  talking  of  scientific  researches  in  his  own 
profession  and  others,  of  the  politics  of  the  day,  or 
literature  of  the  age,  one  would  imagine  him  at  least 
forty.  But  sitting  quietly,  his  face  in  repose,  yet  look 
ing  tired,  his  eyes  so  full  of  life,  yet  steeped  in  reveries, 
the  rare  mouth  relaxed,  unsmiling,  then  he  looked  what 
he  probably  was,  thought  the  girl — about  thirty;  but 
it  was  seldom  that  he  looked  like  that. 

"Therefore,"  reasoned  this  feminine  watcher,  "it 
is  seldom  that  we  see  him  as  he  really  is;  query- 
why?" 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  163 

"Perhaps  I  felt  as  a  parent  feels!"  How  frank  his 
words  had  been,  and  how  unlike  most  men  he  was,  to 
give  utterance  to  that  thought  with  so  much  feeling, 
and  how  caressing  to  the  child!  Rachel  had  to 
acknowledge  that  he  was  original  in  many  ways,  and 
the  ways  were  generally  charming.  His  affections 
were  so  warm,  so  frankly  bestowed;  yet  that  gracious, 
tender  manner  of  his,  even  when  compared  with  the 
blunt  ness  of  the  men  around  him,  never  made  him  seem 
effeminate. 

Rachel,  thinking  of  his  words,  wondered  if  he  had 
a  sweetheart  somewhere,  that  made  him  think  of  a  pos 
sible  wife  or  children  longingly — and  if  so,  how  that 
girl  must  love  him ! 

So,  despite  her  semi-warlike  attitude,  and  her  delight 
in  thwarting  him,  she  had  appreciation  enough  of  his 
personality  to  understand  how  possible  it  was  for  him 
to  be  loved  deeply. 

Jim,  under  Miss  Hardy's  tuition,  had  been  making 
an  attempt  to  "rope  in"  an  education,  and  that  night 
was  reading  doubtfully  the  history  of  our  Glorious 
Republic  in  its  early  days;  garnishing  the  statements 
now  and  then  with  opinions  of  his  own,  especially  the 
part  relating  to  the  character  of  the  original  lords  of 
the  soil. 

"Say,  Miss  Rache,  yer  given'  me  a  straight  tip  on 
this  lay-out?"  he  said  at  last,  shutting  the  book  and 
eyeing  her  closely. 

The  question  aroused  her  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  Hermes-like  head  opposite,  though  she  had,  like 
Hardy,  been  pretending  to  read. 

"Do  you  mean,  is  it  true?"  she  asked. 

"  Naw! "  answered  Jim,  with  the  intonation  of  supreme 
disgust;  "I  hain't  no  call  to  ask  that;  but  what  I'm 


164  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

curious  about  is  whether  the  galoot  as  wrote  the 
truck  lied  by  accident — someone  sort  o'  playiii' 
it  on  him,  ye  see — er  whether  he  thought  the  rest  o' 
creation  was  chumps  from  away  back,  an'  he  just 
naturally  laid  himself  out  to  sell  them  cheap — now  say, 
which  is  it?" 

In  vain  his  monitor  tried  to  impress  on  his  mind 
the  truth  of  the  chronicles,  and  the  fact  that  genera 
tions  ago  the  Indian  could  be  truly  called  a  noble  man, 
until  his  child-like  faith  in  the  straight  tongue  of  the 
interloper  had  made  a  net  for  his  feet,  to  escape  which 
they  had  recourse  only  to  treachery  and  the  tomahawk, 
thus  carving  in  history  a  character  that  in  the  beginning 
was  not  his,  but  one  into  which  he  was  educated  by  the 
godly  people  who  came  with  their  churches  and  guns, 
their  religion  and  whisky,  to  civilize  the  credulous 
people  of  the  forests. 

Jim  listened,  but  in  the  supercilious  disbelief  in 
his  eyes  Rachel  read  the  truth.  In  trying  to  estab 
lish  historical  facts  for  his  benefit,  she  was  simply 
losing  ground  in  his  estimation  at  every  statement 
made. 

"An'  you,"  he  finally  remarked,  after  listening  in 
wonderful  silence  for  him — "an'  you've  read  it  all, 
then?" 

"Yes,  most  of  it." 

"An'  swallowed  it  as  gospel?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  such  literal  belief  as  that;  but 
I  have  read  not  only  this  history,  but  others  in  support 
of  those  facts." 

"Ye  have,  have  yeh?"  remarked  her  pupil,  with  a 
sarcastic  contempt  for  her  book-learning.  "Well,  I 
allow  this  one  will  do  me  a  life-time,  fer  I've  seen  Flat- 
heads,  an'  Diggers,  an'  Snakes!" 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  165 

Thus  ended  the  first  lesson  in  history. 

" Don't  you  think,"  said  Tillie  softly  to  Stuart, 
"that  Rachel  would  win  more  glory  as  a  missionary  to 
the  Indians  than  among  her  own  race?  She  is  always 
running  against  stumbling-blocks  of  past  knowledge 
with  the  progressive  white  man." 

Rachel  cast  one  silencing  glance  at  the  speaker; 
Tillie  laughed. 

''Never  mind,"  she  said  reassuringly;  "I  will  say 
nothing  about  your  other  attempt,  and  I  only  hope  you 
will  be  willing  to  confine  yourself  to  the  Indians  near 
home,  and  not  start  out  to  see  some  Flatheads,  and 
Diggers,  and  Snakes  for  yourself." 

"Lawd  bress  yeh,  honey!"  spoke  up  Aunty  Luce, 
whose  ears  were  always  open  to  anything  concerning 
their  red  neighbors;  "don  yo'  go  to  puttin'  no  sech 
thoughts  in  her  haid.  Miss  Rache  needs  tamin'  down, 
she  do,  'stead  o'  'couragement." 

"Well,  it's  precious  little  encouragement  I  get  here, 
except  to  grow  rusty  in  everything,"  complained  Rachel. 
"A  crusade  against  even  the  Diggers  would  be  a  break 
in  the  monotony.  I  wish  I  had  gone  with  you  to  the 
Kootenai  village,  Mr.  Stuart;  that  would  have  been  a 
diversion." 

"But  rather  rough  riding,"  he  added;  "and  much  of 
the  life,  and — well,  there  is  a  great  deal  one  would 
not  care  to  take  a  lady  to  see." 

"You  don't  know  how  Rachel  rides,"  said  Tillie, 
with  a  note  of  praise  in  her  voice;  "she  rides  as  hard 
as  the  men  on  the  ranch.  You  must  go  together  for 
a  ride,  some  day.  She  knows  the  country  very  well 
already." 

Rachel  was  thinking  of  the  other  part  of  his 
speech. 


166  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I  should  not  have  asked  to  be  taken,"  she  said, 
"but  would  have  gone  on  my  own  independence,  as 
one  of  the  party." 

"Then  your  independence  would  have  led  you  to 
several  sights  revolting  to  a  refined  nature,"  he  said 
seriously,  "and  you  would  have  wished  yourself  well 
out  of  it." 

"Well,  the  Kootenais  are  several  degrees  superior  to 
other  tribes  of  the  Columbia  Basin;  so  you  had  better 
fight  shy  of  Jim's  knowledge.  Why,"  she  added,  with 
a  little  burst  of  indignation  that  their  good  points 
were  so  neglected,  "the  Kootenais  are  a  self-support 
ing  people,  asking  nothing  of  the  Government.  They 
are  independent  traders." 

"Say,  Miss  Rachel,"  broke  in  Jim,  "was  Kalitan  a 
Kootenai  Injun?" 

"No,  though  he  lived  with  them  often.  He  was  of 
the  Gros  Ventres,  a  race  that  belongs  to  the  plains 
rather  than  the  hills." 

"You  are  already  pretty  well  posted  about  the  differ 
ent  tribes,"  observed  Stuart. 

"Yes,  the  Lawd  knows — humph!"  grunted  Aunty 
Luce,  evidently  thinking  the  knowledge  not  a  thing  to 
be  proud  of. 

"Oh,  yes,"  smiled  Tillie,  "Rachel  takes  easily  to 
everything  in  these  hills.  You  should  hear  her  talk 
ing  Chinook  to  a  blanket  brave,  or  exchanging  compli 
ments  with  her  special  friend,  the  Arrow." 

"The  Arrow?  That  is  a  much  more  suggestive  title 
than  the  Wahoosh,  Kah-kwa,  Sipah,  and  some  other 
equally  meaningless  names  I  jotted  down  as  I  heard 
them  up  there." 

"They  are  only  meaningless  to  strangers,"  answered 
the  girl.  "They  all  have  their  own  significance." 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES  167 

"Why,  this  same  Arrow  is  called  Kalitan,"  broke  in 
Jim;  "an'  what'd  you  make  out  of  that?  Both  names 
mean  just  the  same  thing.  He  was  called  that  even 
when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  he  said,  'cause  he  could  run 
like  a  streak.  Why,  he  used  to  make  the  trip  down  to 
the  settlement  an'  be  back  here  with  the  mail  afore 
supper,  makin'  his  forty  miles  afoot  after  breakfast; 
how's  that  for  movin'  over  rough  country?" 

The  swiftness  did  not  seem  to  make  the  desired  im 
pression,  his  listener  catching,  instead,  at  the  fact  of 
their  having  had  an  Indian  mail-carrier. 

"And  where  is  your  Indian  messenger  of  late?"  he 
asked.  "He  has  not  visited  you  since  my  arrival,  has  he?' 

"No;  he  left  this  country  months  ago,"  said  Rachel. 
"Kalitan  is  a  bit  of  a  wanderer — never  long  in  one 
place." 

"Davy  MacDougall  says  he'd  allus  loaf  around  here 
if  Genesee  would,  but  he's  sure  to  go  trottin'  after  Gen- 
esee  soon  as  he  takes  a  trail." 

"That  is  the  Indian  you  spoke  of  this  morning,  is  it 
not?"  asked  Stuart,  looking  at  Rachel. 

"What!"  roared  Jim;  and  Hardy,  who  was  taking 
a  nap  behind  a  paper,  awoke  with  a  start.  "Genesee 
an  Injun!  Well,  that's  good!"  and  he  broke  into  shrill, 
boyish  laughter.  "Well,  you  ought  to  just  say  it  to  his 
face,  that's  all!" 

"Is  he  not?"  he  asked,  still  looking  at  the  girl,  who 
did  not  answer. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Tillie;  "he  is  a  white  man,  a — a— 
well,  he  has  lived  with  the  Indians,  I  believe." 

"I  understood  you  to  say  he  himself  was  an  Indian." 
And  Rachel  felt  the  steady  regard  of  those  warm  eyes, 
while  she  tried  to  look  unconscious,  and  knew  she  was 
failing. 


168  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Hardy  laughed,  and  shook  himself  rightly  awake. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  coming  to  the  rescue, 
"but  she  didn't  say  so;  she  only  gave  you  the  informa 
tion  that  he  was  pure-blooded;  and  I  should  say  he  is 
— as  much  of  a  white  man  as  you  or  I." 

"Mine  was  the  mistake,"  acknowledged  Stuart,  with 
his  old  easy  manner  once  more;  "but  Miss  Rachel's 
love  of  a  joke  did  not  let  me  fall  into  it  without  a  leader. 
And  may  I  ask  who  he  is,  this  white  man  with  the  Indian 
name — what  is  he?" 

Rachel  answered  him  then  brusquely:  "You  saw  a 
white  man  with  the  Kootenais,  did  you  not — one  who 
lives  as  they  do,  with  a  squaw  wife,  or  slave?  You 
described  the  specimen  as  more  degraded  than  the 
Indians  about  him.  Well,  Genesee  is  one  of  the  class 
to  which  that  man  belongs — a  squaw  man;  and  he  is 
also  an  Indian  by  adoption.  Do  you  think  you  would 
care  for  a  closer  acquaintance  ? ' ' 

Tillie  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this  sweeping  denun 
ciation  of  Genesee  and  his  life,  while  even  Hardy  looked 
surprised;  Rachel  had  always,  before,  something  to  say 
in  his  favor.  But  the  man  she  questioned  so  curtly 
was  the  only  one  who  did  not  change  even  expression. 
He  evidently  forgot  to  answer,  but  sat  there  looking 
at  her,  with  a  little  smile  in  his  eyes. 

Once  in  bed,  it  did  not  keep  her  awake;  and  the 
gray  morning  crept  in  ere  she  opened  her  eyes,  earlier 
than  usual,  and  from  a  cause  not  usual — the  sound  in  the 
yard  of  a  man's  voice  singing  snatches  of  song,  ignor 
ing  the  words  sometimes,  but  continuing  the  air  in 
low  carols  of  music,  such  as  speak  so  plainly  of  a  glad 
heart.  It  was  not  yet  sun-up,  and  she  rebelled, 
drowsily,  at  the  racket  as  she  rolled  over  toward 
the  window  and  looked  out.  There  he  was,  tinker- 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  169 

ing  at  something  about  his  saddle,  now  and  then  whis 
tling  in  mimicry  of  a  bird  swaying  on  a  leafless  reed 
in  the  garden.  She  could  see  the  other  men,  out  across 
the  open  space  by  the  barn,  moving  around  as  usual, 
looking  after  the  domestic  stock;  but  until  one  has  had 
a  breakfast,  no  well-regulated  individual  is  hilarious 
or  demonstrative,  and  their  movements,  as  she  could 
see,  were  not  marvels  of  fast  locomotion.  They  looked 
as  she  felt,  she  thought,  yawningly,  and  groped  around 
for  her  shoes,  and  finding  them,  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  again  and  looked  out  at  that  musical  worker 
in  the  yard. 

She  could  hear  Aunty  Luce  tinkling  the  dishes  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Tillie  and  Miss  Margaret,  in  the  next  room, 
cooing  over  some  love-story  of  dawn  they  were  telling 
each  other.  All  seemed  drowsy  and  far  off,  except  that 
penetrating,  cheery  voice  outside. 

"The  de'il  tak'  him!"  she  growled,  quoting  Mac- 
Dougall;  "what  does  the  fellow  mean  by  shouting  like 
that  this  time  of  the  night?  He  is  as  much  of  a  boy 
as  Jim." 

"Here  awa',  there  awa',  wandering  Willie. 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  hand  awa',  hame!" 

warbled  the  Stuart,  with  an  accent  that  suited  his 
name;  and  the  girl  wakened  up  a  bit  to  the  remem 
brance  of  the  old  song,  thinking,  as  she  dressed,  that, 
social  and  cheery  as  he  often  was,  this  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  heard  him  sing;  and  what  a  reso 
nant,  yet  boyish,  timbre  thrilled  through  his  voice. 
She  threw  up  the  window. 

"Look  here!"  she  said,  with  mock  asperity,  "we  are 
willing  to  make  some  allowance  for  national  enthusiasm, 
Mr.  Charles,  Prince  of  the  Stuarts,  but  we  rebel  at 


170  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Scotch  love-songs  shouted  under  our  windows  before 
daybreak.' 

"All  right,"  he  smiled,  amiably.  "I  know  one  or 
two  Irish  ones,  if  you  prefer  them. 

"Oh,  acushla  Mavourneen!  won't  you  marry  me? 
Gramachree,  Mavourneen;  oh,  won't  you  marry  me?" 

Click!  went  the  window  shut  again,  and  from  the 
inside  she  saw  him  looking  up  at  the  casement  with  eyes 
full  of  triumph  and  mischief.  He  was  metamorphosed 
in  some  way.  Yesterday  he  had  been  serious  and 
earnest,  returning  from  his  hill  trip  with  something  like 
despondency,  and  now— 

She  remembered  her  last  sight  of  him  the  night 
before,  as  he  smiled  at  her  from  the  stairway.  Ah, 
yes,  yes!  all  just  because  he  had  felt  jubilant  over 
outwitting  her,  or  rather  over  seeing  a  chance  do  the 
work  for  another.  Was  it  for  that  he  was  still  singing? 
Had  her  instincts  then  told  her  truly  when  she  had 
connected  his  presence  with  the  memory  of  that  older 
man's  sombre  eyes  and  dogged  exile?  Well,  the  exile 
was  his  own  business,  not  that  of  anyone  else — least 
of  all  that  of  this  debonair  individual,  with  his  vary 
ing  emotions. 

And  she  went  down  the  stairs  with  a  resentful  feel 
ing  against  the  light-hearted  melody  of  "Acushla 
Mavourneen." 

"Be  my  champion,  Mrs.  Hardy,"  he  begged  at  the 
breakfast -table,    "or    I    am   tabooed    forever   by    Miss 
Rachel." 
"How  so?" 

"By  what  I  intended  as  an  act  of  homage,  giving 
her  a  serenade  at  sunrise  in  the  love-songs  of  my  fore 
fathers." 

"Nonsense ! "  laughed  Rachel.     '  He  never  knew  what 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  171 

his  forefathers  were  until  Davy  MacDougall  brushed 
up  his  history;  and  you  have  not  thought  much  of  the 
songs  you  were  trying  to  sing,  else  you  would  know 
they  belong  to  the  people  of  the  present  and  future  as 
well  as  the  past. 

" Trying  to  sing!"  was  all  the  comment  Mr.  Stuart 
made,  turning  with  an  injured  air  to  Tillie. 

"Learn  some  Indian  songs,"  advised  that  little  con 
spirator  impressively;  "in  the  Kootenai  country  you 
must  sing  Chinook  if  you  want  to  be  appreciated." 

"There  speaks  one  who  knows,"  chimed  in  Hardy 
lugubriously.  "A  year  ago  I  had  a  wife  and  an  undi 
vided  affection;  but  I  couldn't  sing  Chinook,  and  the 
other  fellow  could,  and  for  many  consecutive  days  I  had 
to  take  a  back  seat." 

Hen !     How  dare  you  ? ' ' 

"In  fact,"  he  continued,  unrestrained  by  the  little 
woman's  tones  or  scolding  eyes,  "I  believe  I  have  to 
thank  jealousy  for  ever  reinstating  me  to  the  head  of 
the  family." 

"Indeed,"  remarked  Stuart,  with  attention  impres 
sively  flattering ;  ' '  may  I  ask  how  it  was  effected  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  very  simply — very  simply.  Chance  brought  her 
the  knowledge  that  there  was  another  girl  up  the  coun 
try  to  whom  her  hero  sang  Chinook  songs,  and,  presto! 
she  has  ever  since  found  English  sufficient  for  ail  her 
needs." 

And  Tillie,  finding  she  had  enough  to  do  to  defend 
herself  without  teasing  Rachel,  gave  her  attention  to  her 
husband,  and  the  girl  turned  to  Stuart. 

"All  this  gives  no  reason  for  your  spasms  of  Scotch 
expression  this  morning,"  she  reminded  him. 

"No?  Well,  my  father  confessor  in  the  feminine, 
I  was  musical — beg  pardon,  tried  to  be — because  I 


172  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

awoke  this  morning  with  an  unusually  light  heart; 
and  I  sang  Scotch  songs — or  tried  to  sing  them — 
because  I  was  thinking  of  a  Scotchman,  and  •ontem- 
plating  a  visit  to  him  to-day." 

"Davy  MacDougall?" 

"The  same." 

"And  you  were  with  him  only  yesterday." 

"And  may  say  good-bye  to  him  to-morrow  for  a  long 
time." 

"So  you  are  going?"  she  asked,  in  a  more  subdued 
tone. 

"I  believe  so!"  And  for  the  moment  the  question 
and  answer  made  the  two  seem  entirely  alone,  though 
surrounded  by  the  others.  Then  she  laughed  in  the 
old  quizzical,  careless  way. 

"I  see  now  the  inspiration  to  song  and  jubilance 
that  prevented  you  from  sleeping,"  she  said,  nodding 
her  head  sagaciously.  "It  was  the  thought  of  escaping 
from  us  and  our  isolated  life.  Is  that  it  ? " 

"No,  it  is  not,"  he  answered  earnestly.  "My  stay 
here  has  been  a  pleasure,  and  out  of  it  I  hope  will  grow 
something  deeper — a  happiness." 

The  feeling  in  the  words  made  her  look  at  him  quickly. 
His  eyes  met  her  own,  with  some  meaning  back  of 
their  warmth  that  she  did  not  understand.  Nine 
girls  out  of  ten  would  have  thought  the  words  and 
manner  suggestive  of  a  love  declaration  and  would  at 
once  have  dropped  their  eyes  in  the  prettiest  air  of 
confusion  and  been  becomingly  fluttered;  but  Rachel 
was  the  tenth,  and  her  eyes  were  remarkably  steady  as 
she  returned  his  glance  with  one  of  inquiry,  reached  for 
another  biscuit,  and  said: 

"Yes?" 

But  the  low  tones  and  his  earnestness  had  not  escaped 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  173 

two  pairs  of  eyes  at  the  table — those  of  Mistress  Tillie 
and  Master  Jim — both  of  them  coming  to  about  the 
same  conclusion  in  the  matter,  the  one  that  Rachel 
was  flirting,  and  the  other  that  Stuart  ' '  had  a  bad  case 
of  spoons." 

Many  were  the  expostulations  when,  after  breakfast, 
Hardy's  guest  informed  him  that  his  exit  from  their 
circle  was  likely  to  be  almost  as  abrupt  as  his  entrance 
had  been.  In  vain  was  there  held  out  to  him  the  sport 
of  their  proposed  hunt — every  persuasive  argument  was 
met  with  a  regretful  refusal. 

"I  am  sorry  to  put  aside  that  pleasure,"  he  answered; 
"but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  scarcely  realized  how  far  the 
season  has  advanced.  The  snow  will  soon  be  deep  in 
the  mountains,  they  tell  me,  and  before  that  time  I  must 
get  across  the  country  to  Fort  Owens.  It  is  away  from 
a  railroad  far  enough  to  make  awkward  travel  in  bad 
weather,  and  I  realize  that  the  time  is  almost  past 
when  I  can  hope  for  dry  days  and  sunshine;  so,  think 
ing  it  over  last  night,  I  felt  I  had  better  start  as  early  as 
possible." 

' '  You  know  nothing  of  the  country  in  that  direction  ? ' ' 
asked  Hardy. 

'  No  more  than  I  did  of  this;  but  an  old  school-fel 
low  of  mine  is  one  of  the  officers  there — Captain  Sneath. 
I  have  not  seen  him  for  years,  but  can  not  consider  my 
trip  up  here  complete  without  visiting  him;  so,  you 
see—" 

"Better  fight  shy  o'  that  territory,"  advised  Andrews, 
chipping  in  with  a  cowboy's  brief  say-so.  "Injun 
faction  fights  all  through  thar,  an'  it's  risky,  unless  ve 
go  with  a  squad — a  big  chance  to  pack  bullets." 

"Then  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  life 
there  under  the  most  stirring  circumstances,"  replied 


174  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Stuart  in  smiling  unconcern,   "for  in  time  of  peace 
a   military   post  is   about   the   dullest   place   one  can 

find." 

"To  be  sure,"  agreed  his  adviser,  eyeing  him  dubi 
ously;  "an'  if  ye  find  yerself  sort  o'  pinin'  for  the  pomp 
o'  war,  as  I  heard  an  actor  spoutin'  about  once,  in  a 
theatre  at  Helena— well,  down  around  Bitter  Root 
River,  an'  up  the  Nez  Perce  Fork,  I  reckon  you'll  find 
a  plenty  o'  it  jest  about  this  time  o'  year." 

"And  concluding  as  I  have  to  leave  at  once,"  resumed 
Stuart,  turning  to  Hardy,  "I  felt  like  taking  a  ride  up 
to  MacDougall's  for  a  good-bye.  I  find  myself  inter 
ested  in  the  old  man,  and  would  not  like  to  leave  without 
seeing  him  again." 

"I  rather  think  I've  got  to  stay  home  to-day,"  said 
his  host  ruefully,  "else  I  would  go  with  you,  but— 

"Not  a  word  of  your  going,"  broke  in  Stuart;  "do 
you  think  I've  located  here  for  the  purpose  of  breaking 
up  your  routine  of  stock  and  agricultural  schemes? 
Not  a  bit  of  it!  I'm  afraid,  as  it  is,  your  hos 
pitality  has  caused  them  to  suffer;  so  not  a  word  of 
an  escort.  I  wouldn't  take  a  man  from  the  place, 

so— " 

"What  about  a  woman?"  asked  Rachel,  with  a  chal 
lenging  glance  that  was  full  of  mischief.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  at  a  loss  for  a  reply,  and  she  continued: 
"Because  I  don't  mind  taking  a  ride  to  Davy  MacDou 
gall's  my  own  self.  As  you  say,  the  sunny  days  will  be 
few  now,  and  I  may  not  have  another  chance  for  weeks; 
so  here  I  am,  ready  to  guide  you,  escort  you,  and  guard 
you  with  my  life." 

What  was  there  left  for  the  man  to  say? 
"What  possessed  you  to  go  to-day,  Rachel?"  asked 
Tillie  dubiously.     "Do  you  think  it  is  quite—" 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  175 

"Oh,  yes,  dear — quite,"  returned  that  young  lady  con 
fidently;  "and  you  need  not  assume  that  anxious  air 
regarding  either  the  proprieties  or  my  youthful  affections, 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  impelled  to  go  through  sheer 
perversity;  not  because  your  latest  favorite  wants  me, 
but  simply  because  he  does  not." 

Twenty  minutes  after  her  offer  they  were  mounted 
and  clattering  away  over  the  crisp  bronze  turf.  To 
Stuart  the  task  of  entertaining  a  lady  whose  remarks 
to  him  seldom  verged  from  the  ironical  was  anything 
but  a  sinecure — more,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was 
unused  to  it;  and  an  ungallant  query  to  himself  was: 
"Why  did  she  come,  anyway?"  He  had  not  heard  her 
reply  to  Tillie. 

The  air  was  crisp  and  cold  enough  to  make  their  heavy 
wraps  a  comfort,  especially  when  they  reached  the 
higher  land;  the  sun  was  showing  fitfully,  low-flying, 
skurrying  clouds  often  throwing  it  in  eclipse. 

"Snow  is  coming,"  prophesied  the  girl,  with  a  weather- 
eye  to  the  north,  where  the  sky  was  banking  up  in 
pale-gray  masses ;  ' '  perhaps  not  heavy  enough  to  impede 
your  trip  south,  to  Owens,  but  that  bit  over  there  looks 
like  a  visiting-card  of  winter." 

"How  weather-wise  you  are!"  he  observed.  "Now  I 
had  noticed  not  the  slightest  significance  in  all  that; 
in  fact,  you  seem  possessed  of  several  Indian  accomplish 
ments — their  wood-lore,  their  language,  their  habit  of 
going  to  nature  instead  of  an  almanac;  and  did  not  Mrs. 
Hardy  say  you  knew  some  Indian  songs?  Who  taught 
you  them?" 

"Songs  came  near  getting  us  into  a  civil  war  at 
breakfast,"  she  observed,  "and  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
ground  is  any  more  safe  around  Indian  than  Scotch 
ones." 


176  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"There  is  something  more  substantial  of  the  former 
race,"  he  said,  pointing  ahead. 

It  was  the  hulking  figure  of  a  Siwash,  who  had  seen 
them  first  and  tried  to  dodge  out  of  sight,  and  failing 
halted  at  the  edge  of  a  little  stream 

"Hostile?"  queried  Stuart,  relying  more  on  his 
companion's  knowledge  than  his  own;  but  she  shook  her 

head. 

"No;  from  the  Reservation,  I  suppose.  He  doesn't 
look  like  a  blanket  brave.  We  will  see." 

Coming  within  speaking  distance,  she  hailed  him 
across  the  divide  of  the  little  stream,  and  got  in  reply 
what  seemed  to  Stuart  an  inextricable  mass  of  staccatos 
and  gutturals. 

"He  is  a  Kootenai,"  she  explained,  "and  wants  to 
impress  on  our  minds  that  he  is  a  good  Indian." 

"He  does  not  look  good  for  much,"  was  the  natural 
remark  of  the  white  man,  eyeing  Mr.  Kootenai  critically; 
"even  on  his  native  heath  he  is  not  picturesque." 

"No — poor  imp!"  agreed  the  girl;  "with  winter  so 
close,  their  concern  is  more  how  they  are  to  live  than 
how  they  appear  to  people  who  have  no  care  for 
them." 

She  learned  he  was  on  his  way  south  to  the  Flathead 
Reservation;  so  he  had  evidently  solved  the  question 
of  how  he  intended  living  for  the  winter,  at  all  events. 
He  was,  however,  short  of  ammunition.  When  Rachel 
explained  his  want,  Stuart  at  once  agreed  to  give  him 
some. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry!"  advised  his  commander-in- 
chief;  "wait  until  we  know  how  it  is  that  he  has  no 
ammunition,  and  so  short  a  distance  from  his  tribe.  An 
Indian  can  always  get  that  much  if  he  is  not  too  lazy 
to  hunt  or  trap,  or  is  not  too  much  of  a  thief." 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  177 

But  she  found  the  noble  red  man  too  proud  too 
answer  many  questions  of  a  squaw.  The  fear  however, 
of  hostilities  from  the  ever-combative  Blackfeet  seemed 
to  be  the  chief  moving  cause. 

"Rather  a  weak-backed  reason,"  commented  Rachel; 
"and  I  guess  you  can  dig  roots  from  here  to  the  Reser 
vation.  No  powder,  no  shot." 

"Squaw — papoose — sick,"  he  added,  as  a  last  appeal 
to  sympathy. 

"Where?" 

He  waved  a  dirty  hand  up  the  creek. 

"Go  on  ahead;  show  us  where  they  are." 

His  hesitation  was  too  slight  to  be  a  protest,  but  still 
there  was  a  hesitation,  and  the  two  glanced  at  each  other 
as  they  noticed  it. 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  either  squaw  or  papoose," 
decided  Stuart.  "Lo  is  a  romancer." 

But  there  was,  huddled  over  a  bit  of  fire,  and  holding 
in  her  arms  a  little  bundle  of  bronze  flesh  and  blood. 
It  was,  as  the  Indian  had  said,  sick — paroxysms  of 
shivers  assailing  it  from  time  to  time, 

"Give  me  your  whisky-flask!"  Rachel  said  promptly; 
and  dismounting,  she  poured  some  in  the  tin  cup  at  her 
saddle  and  set  it  on  the  fire — the  blue,  sputtering  flame 
sending  the  odor  of  civilization  into  the  crisp  air.  Cool 
ing  it  to  suit  baby's  lips,  she  knelt  beside  the  squaw, 
who  had  sat  stolidly,  taking  no  notice  of  the  new 
comers;  but  as  the  girl's  hand  was  reached  to  help 
the  child  she  raised  her  head,  and  then  Rachel  knew 
who  she  was. 

They  did  not  speak,  but  after  a  little  of  the  warm 
liquor  had  forced  itself  down  the  slight  throat,  Rachel 
left  the  cup  in  the  mother's  hands,  and  reached  again 
for  the  whisky. 

12 


178  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"You  can  get  more  from  Davy  MacDougall,"  she  said, 
in  a  half-conciliatory  tone  at  this  wholesale  confiscation ; 
"and — and  you  might  give  him  some  ammunition — not 
much.'* 

"What  a  vanishing  of  resolves!"  he  remarked,  meas 
uring  out  an  allowance  of  shot;  "and  all  because  of  a 
copper-colored  papoose.  So  you  have  a  bit  of  natural, 
womanly  weakness?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer;  there  was  a  certain  air  of 
elation  about  her  as  she  undid  a  scarf  from  her  throat 
and  wrapped  it  about  the  little  morsel  of  humanity. 

"Go  past  the  sheep  ranch,"  she  directed  the  passive 
warrior,  who  stood  gazing  at  the  wealth  in  whisky  and 
powder.  "Do  you  know  where  it  is — Hardy's?  Tell 
them  I  sent  you — show  them  that,"  and  she  pointed  to 
the  scarf;  "tell  them  what  you  need  for  squaw  and 
papoose;  they  will  find  it." 

Skulking  Brave  signified  that  he  understood,  and  then 
led  Betty  toward  her. 

"He  is  not  very  hospitable,"  she  confided  to  Stuart, 
in  the  white  man's  tongue,  "else  he  would  not  be  in  such 
haste  to  get  rid  of  us." 

And  although  their  host  did  not  impress  one  as 
having  a  highly  strung  nervous  organization,  yet  his 
manner  during  their  halt  gave  them  the  idea  that  he 
was  ill  at  ease.  They  did  not  tarry  long,  but  having 
given  what  help  they  could,  rode  away,  lighter  of 
whisky  and  ammunition,  and  the  girl,  strange  enough, 
seemed  lighter  of  heart. 

After  they  had  reached  a  point  high  above  the  little 
creek,  they  turned  for  a  look  over  the  country  passed. 
It  lay  in  brown  and  blue-gray  patches,  with  dashes  of 
dark-green  on  the  highlands,  where  the  pines  grew. 

"What  is  the  white  thing  moving  along  that  line 


She  undid  a  scarf  from  her  throat.     Page  1 78. 


AT  CROSS-PURPOSES.  179 

of  timber?"  asked  the  girl,  pointing  in  the  direction 
they  had  come.  It  was  too  far  off  to  see  clearly,  but 
with  the  aid  of  Stuart's  field-glass,  it  was  decided  to 
be  the  interesting  family  they  had  stopped  with  a 
little  ways  back.  And  the  white  thing  noticed  was  a 
horse  they  were  riding.  It  was  getting  over  the  ground 
at  the  fastest  rate  possible  with  its  triple  weight,  for  the 
squaw  was  honored  with  a  seat  back  of  her  lord. 

"I  imagined  they  were  traveling  on  foot,  didn't  you?" 
asked  Stuart. 

"What  a  fool  he  was  to  steal  a  white  horse!"  re 
marked  the  girl  contemptuously;  "he  might  know  it 
would  be  spotted  for  miles." 


180  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   TRIO    IN    WITCHLAND. 

The  noon  was  passed  when  they  reached  the  cabin  on 
Scot's  Mountain,  and  found  its  owner  on  the  point  of 
leaving  for  the  Maple  range.  But  quickly  replacing 
his  gun  on  its  pegs,  he  uncovered  the  fire,  set  on  the 
coffee-pot,  and,  with  Rachel's  help,  in  a  very  short  time 
had  a  steaming-hot  dinner  of  broiled  bear  steaks  and 
"corn-dodgers,"  with  the  additional  delicacy  of  a  bowl 
of  honey  from  the  wild  bees'  store- 

"I  have  some  laid  by  as  a  bit  of  a  gift  to  Mr.  Hardy's 
lady,"  he  confided  to  Rachel.  "I  found  this  fellow," 
tapping  the  steak,  "in  one  o'  the  traps  as  I  was  a-comin' 
my  way  home;  an'  the  fresh  honey  on  his  paws  helped 
me  smell  out  where  he  had  spied  it,  and  a  good  lot  o' 
it  there  was  that  Mr.  Grizzly  had  na  reached." 

"See  here,"  said  Stuart,  noting  that,  because  of 
their  visit,  the  old  man  had  relinquished  all  idea  of 
going  to  the  woods,  "we  must  not  interfere  with  your 
plans,  for  at  best  we  have  but  a  short  time  to  stay." 
And  then  he  explained  the  reason. 

When  the  question  of  snow  was  taken  into  account, 
Davy  agreed  that  Stuart's  decision  was  perhaps  wise; 
but  "he  was  main  sorry  o'  the  necessity." 

"An'  it's  to  Owens  ye  be  taken'  the  trail?"  he 
asked.  "Eh,  but  that's  curious  now.  I  have  a  rare 
an'  good  friend  thereabouts  that  I  would  be  right 
glad  to  send  a  word  to;  an'  I  was  just  about  to  take 
a  look  at  his  tunnel  an'  the  cabin,  when  ye  come  the 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  181 

day,  just  to  see  it  was  all  as  it  should  be  ere  the  snows 
set  in." 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  be  of  any  service  to  you," 
said  Stuart  warmly;  "and  to  carry  a  message  is  a  very 
slight  one.  Who  is  your  friend?" 

"It's  just  the  man  Genesee,  who  used  to  be  my 
neighbor.  But  he's  left  me  alone  now  these  many 
months — about  a  year;"  and  he  turned  to  Rachel  for 
corroboration. 

"More  than  a  year,"  she  answered  briefly. 

"Well,  it  is  now.  I'm  losin'  track  o'  dates  these 
late  days;  but  you're  right,  lass,  an'  the  winter  would 
ha'  been  ower  lonely  if  it  had  na  been  for  yourself. 
Think  o'  that,  Charlie  Stuart:  this  slim  bit  o'  woman 
kind  substituting  herself  for  a  rugged  build  o'  a  man 
taller  than  you  by  a  half-head,  an'  wi'  no  little  suc 
cess,  either.  But,"  he  added  teasingly,  "ye  owed 
me  the  debt  o'  your  company  for  the  sending  o'  him 
away;  so  ye  were  only  honest  after  all,  Rachel 
Hardy." 

Rachel  laughed,  thinking  it  easier,  perhaps,  to  dis 
pose  of  the  question  thus  than  by  any  disclaimer — 
especially  with  the  eyes  of  Stuart  on  her  as  they 
were. 

"You  are  growing  to  be  a  tease,"  she  answered. 
"You  will  be  saying  I  sent  Kalitan  and  Talapa,  next." 

"But  Talapa  has  na  gone  from  the  hills?" 

"Hasn't  she?  Well,  I  saw  her  on  the  trail,  going 
direct  south,  this  morning,  as  fast  as  she  could  get 
over  the  ground,  with  a  warrior  and  a  papoose  as  com 
panions." 

"Did  ye  now?  Well,  good  riddance  to  them.  They 
ha'  been  loafing  around  the  Kootenai  village  ever 
since  I  sent  them  from  the  cabin  in  the  summer.  That 


182  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Talapa  was  a  sleepy-eyed  bit  o'  old  Nick.  I  told 
Genesee  that  same  from  the  first,  when  he  was  wasting 
his  stock  o'  pity  on  her.  Ye  see,"  he  said,  turning 
his  speech  to  Stuart,  "a  full-blooded  Siwash  has  some 
redeeming  points,  and  a  character  o'  their  own;  but 
the  half-breeds  are  a  part  white  an'  a  part  red,  with  a 
good  wheen  o'  the  devil's  temper  thrown  in." 

''She  didn't  appear  to  have  much  of  the  last  this 
morning,"  observed  Rachel.  "She  looked  pretty  mis 
erable." 

"Ah,  well,  tak'  the  best  o'  them,  an'  they  look  that 
to  the  whites.  An'  so  they're  flittin'  to  the  Reservation 
to  live  off  the  Government?  Skulking  Bob'll  be  too 
lazy  to  be  even  takin'  the  chance  o'  fightin'  with  his 
people  against  the  Blackfeet,  if  trouble  should  come; 
and  there's  been  many  a  straggler  from  the  rebels 
makin'  their  way  north  to  the  Blackfeet,  an'  that  is 
like  to  breed  mischief." 

"And  your  friend  is  at  Owens?" 

"Yes — or  thereabouts.  One  o'  the  foremost  o'  their 
scouts,  they  tell  me,  an'  a  rare  good  one  he  is,  with 
no  prejudice  on  either  side  o'  the  question." 

"I  should  think,  being  a  white  man,  his  sympathies 
would  lean  toward  his  own  race,"  observed  Stuart. 

"Well,  that's  as  may  chance.  There's  many  the 
man  who  finds  his  best  friends  in  strange  blood.  Gen 
esee  is  thought  no  little  of  among  the  Kootenais— 
more,  most  like,  than  he  would  be  where  he  was  born 
and  bred.  Folk  o'  the  towns  know  but  little  how  to 
weigh  a  man." 

"And  is  he  from  the  cities?" 

For  the  first  time  Davy  MacDougall  looked  up 
quickly. 

"I  know  not,"  he  answered  briefly,  "an',  not  giving 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  183 

to  you  a  short  answer,  I  care  not.  Few  questions  make 
long  friends  in  the  hills." 

Stuart  was  somewhat  nonplussed  at  the  bluntness  of 
the  hint,  and  Rachel  was  delighted. 

"You  see,"  she  reminded  him  wickedly,  "one  can 
be  an  M.  D.,  an  L.  S.  D.,  or  any  of  the  annexations, 
without  Kootenai  people  considering  his  education 
finished.  But  look  here,  Davy  MacDougall,  we  only  ran 
up  to  say  'klahowya,'  and  have  got  to  get  back  to-night; 
so,  if  you  are  going  over  to  Tamahnous  cabin,  don't 
stop  on  our  account;  we  can  go  part  of  the  way  with 
you." 

"But  ye  can  go  all  the  way,  instead  o'  but  a  part, 
an'  then  no  be  out  o'  your  road  either,"  he  said,  with 
eagerness  that  showed  how  loath  he  was  to  part  from 
his  young  companions.  "Ye  know,"  he  added,  turn 
ing  to  Rachel,  "it  is  but  three  miles  by  the  cross-cut 
to  Genesee's,  while  by  the  valley  ye  would  cover  eight 
on  the  way.  Now,  the  path  o'er  the  hills  is  no  fit  for 
the  feet  o'  a  horse,  except  it  be  at  the  best  o'  seasons; 
but  this  is  an  ower  good  one,  with  neither  the  rain  nor 
the  ice ;  an'  if  ye  will  risk  it — 

Of  course  they  would  risk  it;  and  with  a  draught 
apiece  from  an  odorous,  dark-brown  jug,  and  the  gift 
of  a  flask  that  found  its  way  to  Stuart's  pocket,  they 
started. 

They  needed  that  swallow  of  brandy  as  a  brace  against 
the  cold  wind  of  the  hills.  It  hustled  through  the 
pines  like  winged  fiends  let  loose  from  the  north.  Dried 
berries  from  the  bushes  and  cones  from  the  trees  were 
sent  pattering  to  sleep  for  the  winter,  and  the 
sighs  through  the  green  roofing,  and  the  moans  from 
twisted  limbs,  told  of  the  hardihood  needed  for  life 
up  there.  The  idea  impressed  Stuart  so  much  that  he 


184  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

gave  voice  to  it,  and  was  laughed  at  grimly  by  the  old 
mountaineer. 

''Oh,  well,  it  just  takes  man  to  be  man,  an'  that's 
all  when  all's  said,"  he  answered  "To  be  sure,  there 
be  times  when  one  canna  stir  for  the  snow  wreaths,  but 
that's  to  be  allowed  for;  an'  then  ye  may  ha'  took 
note  that  my  cabin  is  in  shelter  o'  all  but  the  south 
wind,  an'  that's  a  great  matter.  Men  who  live  in  the 
mountain  maun  get  used  to  its  frolics;  but  it's  an 
ugly  bit,"  he  acknowledged,  as  they  stopped  to  rest 
and  look  up  over  the  seemingly  pathless  way  they 
had  come;  "but  I've  been  thankful  for  it  many's  the 
time,  when,  unlocked  for,  Genesee  and  Mowitza  would 
show  their  faces  at  my  door,  an'  she  got  so  she  could 
make  that  climb  in  the  dark — think  o'  that!  Ah,  but 
she  was  the  wise  one ! ' ' 

Stuart  glanced  at  Rachel,  who  was  more  likely  than 
himself  to  understand  what  was  meant  by  the  "wise 
one ; "  but  he  did  not  again  venture  a  question.  Mowitza 
was  another  squaw,  he  supposed,  and  one  of  the  com 
panions  of  the  man  Genesee.  And  the  other  one 
they  had  passed  in  the  morning? — her  name  also  was 
connected  with  the  scout  whom  the  white  girl  seemed 
to  champion  or  condemn  as  the  fancy  pleased  her. 
And  Stuart,  as  a  stranger  to  the  social  system  of  the 
wilderness,  had  his  curiosity  widely  awakened  A 
good  deal  of  it  was  directed  to  Rachel  herself.  Hearing 
MacDougall  speak  of  the  man  to  her,  he  could  under 
stand  that  she  had  no  lack  of  knowledge  in  that  direc 
tion — an(j  the  direction  was  one  of  which  the  right 
sort  of  a  girl  was  supposed  to  be  ignorant;  or,  if  not 
ignorant,  at  least  to  conceal  her  wisdom  in  the  wise 
way  of  her  sisters. 

This  one  did  nothing  of  the  sort;  and  the  series 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  185 

of  new  impressions  received  made  him  observe 
the  girl  with  a  scrutiny  not  so  admiring  as  he  had 
always,  until  now,  given  her.  He  was  irritated  with 
himself  that  it  was  so,  yet  his  ideas  of  what  a  woman 
should  be  were  getting  some  hard  knocks  at  her 
hands. 

Suddenly  the  glisten  of  the  little  lake  came  to  them 
through  the  gray  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  a  little 
later  they  had  descended  the  series  of  small  circular 
ridges  that  terraced  the  cove  from  the  timber  to  the 
waters,  that  was  really  not  much  more  than  an  immense 
spring  that  happened  to  bubble  up  where  there  was  a 
little  depression  to  spread  itself  in  and  show  to 
advantage. 

"But  a  mill  would  be  turned  easily  by  that  same 
bit  o'  water,"  observed  MacDougall;  "an'  there's 
where  Genesee  showed  the  level  head  in  locating  his 
claim  where  he  did." 

"It  looks  like  wasted  power,  placed  up  here,"  ob 
served  Stuart,  "for  it  seems  about  the  last  place  in 
Christendom  for  a  mill." 

"Well,  so  it  may  look  to  many  a  pair  o'  eyes,"  re 
turned  the  old  man,  with  a  wink  and  a  shrug  that  was 
indescribable,  but  suggested  a  vast  deal  of  unuttered 
knowledge;  "but  the  lad  who  set  store  by  it  because 
o'  the  water-power  was  a  long  ways  from  a  fool,  I  can 
tell  ye." 

Again  Stuart  found  himself  trying  to  count  the 
spokes  of  some  shadowy  wheels  within  wheels  that 
had  a  trick  of  eluding  him;  and  he  felt  irritatingly  con 
fident  that  the  girl  looking  at  him  with  quizzical,  non 
committal  eyes  could  have  enlightened  him  much 
as  to  the  absent  ruler  of  this  domain,  who,  accord 
ing  to  her  own  words,  was  utterly  degraded,  yet  had 


186  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

a  trick  of  keeping  his  personality  such  a  living  thing 
after  a  year's  absence. 

The  cabin  was  cold  with  the  chill  dreariness  of  any 
house  that  is  left  long  without  the  warmth  of  an 
embodied  human  soul.  Only  the  wandering,  homeless 
spirits  of  the  air  had  passed  in  and  out,  in  and  out  of 
its  chinks,  sighing  through  them  for  months,  until,  on 
entrance,  one  felt  an  intuitive,  sympathetic  shiver  for 
their  loneliness. 

A  fire  was  soon  crackling  on  the  hearth;  but  the  red 
gleams  did  not  dance  so  merrily  on  the  rafters  as  they 
had  the  first  time  she  had  been  warmed  at  the  fire 
place—the  daylight  was  too  merciless  a  rival.  It 
penetrated  the  corners  and  showed  up  the  rude  bunk 
and  some  mining  implements;  from  a  rafter  hung  a  roll 
of  skins  done  up  in  bands  of  some  pliable  withes. 

Evidently  Genesee's  injunction  had  been  obeyed, 
for  even  the  pottery,  and  reed  baskets,  and  bowls  still 
shone  from  the  box  of  shelves. 

"It's  a  mystery  to  me  those  things  are  not  stolen  by 
the  Indians,"  observed  Stuart,  noticing  the  lack  of 
any  fastening  on  the  door,  except  a  bar  on  the  inside. 

"There's  no  much  danger  o'  that,"  said  the  old  man 
grimly,  "unless  it  be  by  a  Si  wash  who  knows  naught 
o'  the  country.  The  Kootenai  people  would  do  no 
ill  to  Genesee,  nor  would  any  Injun  when  he  lives  in 
the  Tamahnons  ground." 

"What  territory  is  that?" 

"Just  the  territory  o'  witchcraft — no  less.  The  old 
mine  and  the  spring,  with  the  circle  o'  steps  down  to 
it,  they  let  well  alone,  I  can  tell  ye;  and  as  for  stealin', 
they'd  no  take  the  worth  o'  a  tenpenny  nail  from 
between  the  two  hills  that  face  each  other,  an'  the 
rocks  o'  them  'gives  queer  echoes  that  they  canna 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  1&7 

explain.  Oh,  yes,  they  have  their  witches,  anj  their 
warlocks,  an'  enchanted  places,  an'  will  no  go  against 
their  belief,  either." 

"But,"  said  Rachel,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  "Talapa 
was  not  afraid  to  live  here." 

"An'  did  ye  not  know,  then,  that  she  was  not  o'  Koote- 
nai  stock?"  asked  the  old  man.  "Well,  she  was  not  a 
bit  o'  it;  Genesee  bought  her  of  a  beast  of  a  Blackfoot.': 

"Bought  her?"  asked  Stuart,  and  even  Rachel 
opened  her  eyes  in  attention — perhaps,  after  all,  not 
knowing  so  much  as  the  younger  man  had  angrily  given 
her  credit  for. 

"Just  that;  an'  dear  she  would  ha'  been  at  most  any 
price.  But  she  was  a  braw  thing  to  look  at,  an'  young 
enough  to  be  sorry  o'er.  An'  so  when  he  come  across 
her  takin'  a  beating  like  a  mule  he  could  na  stand  it ; 
an'  the  only  way  he  could  be  sure  o'  putting  an  end 
to  it  was  by  maken'  a  bargain;  an'  that's  just  what  he 
did,  an'  a'most  afore  he  had  time  to  take  thought, 
the  girl  was  his,  an'  he  had  to  tek  her  with  him.  Well," 
and  the  old  man  laughed  comically  at  the  remem 
brance,  "you  should  ha'  seen  him  at  the  comin'  home! 

tried  to  get  her  off  his  hands  by  leavin'  her  an'  a 

quitclaim  at  my  cabin;  but  I'd  have  none  o'  that- 
no  half-breed  woman  could  stay  under  a  roof  o'  mine; 
an'  the  finish  o'  it  was  he  hed  to  bring  her  here  to  keep 
house  for  him,  an'  a  rueful  commencement  it  was. 
Then  it  was  but  a  short  while  'til  he  got  hurt  one  day 
in  the  tunnel,  an'  took  a  deal  o'  care  before  he 
was  on  his  feet  again.  Well,  ye  know  woman 
kind  make  natural  nurses,  an'  by  the  time  she  had  him 
on  the  right  trail  again  he  had  got  o'  the  mind  that 
Talapa  was  a  necessity  o'  the  cabin;  an'  so  ye  may 
know  she  stayed." 


188  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

''In  what  tunnel  was  he  injured?"  asked  Stuart. 

"Why,  just—" 

"There's  your  horse  ranging  calmly  up  toward  the 
timber/'  observed  Rachel,  turning  from  the  window  to 
Stuart.  "  Do  you  want  to  walk  to  the  ranch? " 

"Well,  not  to-day;"  and  a  moment  later  he  was  out 
of  the  door  and  running  across  the  terraced  meadow. 

"Don't  tell  him  too  much  about  the  tunnel,"  sug 
gested  the  girl,  when  she  and  the  old  man  were  alone. 

"Why,  lass," — he  began;  but  she  cut  him  short 
brusquely,  keeping  her  eye  on  the  form  on  the  hill-side. 

"Oh,  he  may  be  all  right;  but  it  isn't  like  you,  Davy 
MacDougall.  to  tell  all  you  know  to  strangers,  even 
if  they  do  happen  to  have  Scotch  names — you  clan 
nish  old  goose!" 

"But  the  lad's  all  right." 

"May  be  he  is;  but  you've  told  him  enough  of  the 
hills  now  to  send  him  away  thinking  we  are  all  a  rather 
mixed  and  objectionable  lot.  Oh,  yes,  he  does 
too!"  as  Davy  tried  to  remonstrate.  "I  don't  care  how 
much  you  tell  him  about  the  Indians;  but  that  tunnel 
may  have  something  in  it  that  Genesee  wouldn't  want 
Eastern  speculators  spying  into  while  he's  away — do 
you  see?" 

Evidently  he  did,  and  the  view  was  not  one  flatter 
ing  to  his  judgment,  for,  in  order  to  see  more  clearly, 
he  took  off  his  fur  cap,  scratched  his  head,  and  then 
replacing  the  covering  with  a  great  deal  of  energy,  he 
burst  out : 

"Well,  damn  a  fool,  say  I." 

Rachel  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  this  pro 
fane  plea. 

"I  suppose  he's  all  right,"  she  continued;  "only 
when  somebody's  interest  is  at  stake,  especially  a 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  189 

friend's,  we  oughtn't  to  take  things  for  granted,  and 
keeping  quiet  hurts  no  one,  unless  it  be  a  stranger's 
curiosity." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Ye  dinna 
like  him.  then?" 

She  hesitated,  her  eyes  on  the  tall  form  leading 
back  the  horse.  Just  then  there  seemed  a  strange 
likeness  to  Mowitza  and  Genesee  in  their  manner,  for 
the  beast  was  tossing  its  head  impatiently,  and  he  was 
laughing,  evidently  teasing  it  with  the  fact  of  its  cap 
ture. 

"Yes,  I  do  like  him,"  she  said  at  last;  " there  is 
much  about  him  to  like.  But  we  must  not  give  away 
other  people's  affairs  because  of  that." 

"Right  you  are,  my  lass,"  answered  Davy;  "an'  it's 
rare  good  sense  ye  show  in  remindin'  me  o'  the  same. 
It  escapes  me  many's  the  time  that  he's  a  bit  of  a 
stranger  when  all's  said;  an'  do  ye  know,  e'en  at  the 
first  he  had  no  the  ways  of  a  stranger  to  me.  I  used 
to  fancy  that  something  in  his  build,  or  it  may  ha' 
been  but  the  voice,  was  like  to — 

"You  are  either  too  old  or  not  old  enough  to  have 
fancies,  Davy  MacDougall,"  interrupted  the  girl 
briskly,  as  Stuart  re-entered.  "Well,  is  it  time  to  be 
moving?" 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Almost;  but  come  to  the  fire  and  get  well  warmed 
before  we  start.  I  believe  it  grows  colder;  here,  take 
this  seat." 

"Well,  I  will  not,"  she  answered,  looking  about  her; 
"don't  let  your  gallantry  interfere  with  your  comfort, 
for  I've  a  chair  of  my  own  when  I  visit  this  witchy 
quarter  of  the  earth — yes,  there  it  is." 

And  from  the  corner  by  the  bunk  she  drew  forward 


100  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

the  identical  chair  on  which  she  had  sat  through  the 
night  at  her  only  other  visit.  But  from  her  speech 
Stuart  inferred  that  this  time  was  but  one  of  the  many. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  here,  Davy  MacDougall?" 
she  asked,  drawing  her  chair  close  beside  him  and 
glancing  comprehensively  about  the  cabin;  "weather 
board  it  up  for  winter?" 

"Naw,  scarcely  that,"  he  answered  good-humoredly ; 
"but  just  to  gather  up  the  blankets  or  skins  or  aught 
that  the  weather  or  the  rats  would  lay  hold  of,  and 
carry  them  across  the  hills  to  my  own  camp  till  the 
spring  comes;  mayhaps  he  may  come  with  it." 

The  hope  in  his  voice  was  not  very  strong,  and  the 
plaintiveness  in  it  was  stronger  than  he  knew.  The 
other  two  felt  it,  and  were  silent. 

"An'  will  ye  be  tellin'  him  for  me,"  he  continued, 
after  a  little,  to  Stuart,  "that  all  is  snug  an'  safe,  an' 
that  I'll  keep  them  so,  an'  a  welcome  with  them,  against 
his  return?  An'  just  mention,  too,  that  his  father, 
Grey  Eagle,  thinks  the  time  is  long  since  he  left, 
an'  that  the  enemy — Time — is  close  on  his  trail.  An' 
— an'  that  the  day  he  comes  back  will  be  holiday  in 
the  hills." 

"The  last  from  Grey  Eagle  or  yourself?"  asked 
Stuart  teasingly.  But  the  girl  spoke  up,  covering  the 
old  man's  momentary  hesitation. 

"From  me,"  she  said  coolly;  "if  any  name  is  needed 
to  give  color  to  so  general  a  desire,  you  can  use  mine." 

His  face  flushed;  he  looked  as  if  about  to  speak  to 
her,  but,  instead,  his  words  were  to  MacDougall. 

"I  will  be  very  glad  to  carry  the  word  to  your  friend," 
he  said;  "it  is  but  a  light  weight." 

"Yes,  I  doubt  na  it  seems  so  to  the  carrier,  but  I 
would  no  think  it  so  light  a  thing  to  ha'  word  o'  the 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  191 

lad.  We  ha'  been  neighbors,  ye  see,  this  five  year,  with 
but  little  else  that  was  civilized  to  come  near  us.  An' 
there's  a  wide  difference  atween  neighbors  c'  stone 
pavements  an'  neighbors  o'  the  hills — a  fine  differ 
ence." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  agreed  the  girl;  and  from  their  tones 
one  would  gather  the  impression  that  all  the  splendors 
of  a  metropolis  were  as  nothing  when  compared  with 
the  luxuries  of  "shack"  life  in  the  "bush." 

"Can  ye  hit  the  trail  down  at  the  forks  without  me 
along?"  asked  MacDougall,  with  a  sudden  remembrance 
of  the  fact  that  Rachel  did  not  know  the  way  so  well 
from  the  "Place  of  the  Tamahnous"  as  she  did  from  Scot's 
Mountain.  She  nodded  her  head  independently. 

"I  can,  Davy  MacDougall.  And  you  are  paying  me 
a  poor  compliment  when  you  ask  me  so  doubtfully. 
I've  been  prowling  through  the  bush  enough  for  this 
past  year  to  know  it  for  fifty  miles  around,  instead  of 
twenty.  And  now  if  your  highness  thinks  we've  had 
our  share  of  this  fire,  let  us  'move  our  freight,'  'hit 
the  breeze,'  or  any  other  term  of  the  woolly  West  that 
means  action,  and  get  up  and  git." 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  answered  Stuart,  with  a  gra- 
ciousness  of  manner  that  made  her  own  bravado  more 
glaring  by  contrast.  He  could  see  she  assumed  much 
for  the  sake  of  mischief  and  irritation  to  himself;  and 
his  tone  in  reply  took  an  added  intonation  of 
refinement;  but  the  hint  was  lost  on  her — she  only 
laughed. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Davy  MacDougall,"  she 
remarked  to  that  gentleman,  "this  slip  of  your  nation 
has  been  planted  in  the  wrong  century.  He  belongs 
to  the  age  of  lily -like  damsels  in  sad-colored  frocks, 
and  knights  of  high  degree  on  bended  knee  and  their 


192  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

armor  hung  to  the  rafters.  I  get  a  little  mixed  in  my 
dates  sometimes,  but  believe  it  was  the  age  when  cap? 
and  bells  were  also  in  fashion." 

"Dinna  mind  her  at  all,"  advised  the  old  man;  "she'd 
be  doin'  ye  a  good  turn  wi'  just  as  ready  a  will  as  she 
would  mak'  sport  o'  ye.  Do  I  not  know  her? — ah, 
but  I  do!" 

"So  does  the  Stuart,"  said  Rachel;  "and  as  for 
doing  him  a  good  turn,  I  proved  my  devotion  in  that 
line  this  morning,  when  I  saved  him  from  a  lonely, 
monotonous  ride — didn't  I?"  she  added,  glancing  up 
at  him. 

"You  look  positively  impish,"  was  the  only  reply  he 
made;  and  returning  her  gaze  with  one  that  was  half 
amusement,  half  vexation,  he  went  out  for  the  horses. 

"You  see,  he  didn't  want  me  at  all,  Davy  MacDou- 
gall,"  confided  the  girl,  and  if  she  felt  any  chagrin  she 
concealed  it  admirably.  "But  they've  been  talking 
some  about  Genesee  down  at  the  ranch,  and — and 
Stuart's  interest  was  aroused.  I  didn't  know  how 
curious  he  might  be — Eastern  folks  are  powerful  so"- 
and  in  the  statement  and  adoption  of  vernacular  she 
seemed  to  forget  how  lately  she  was  of  the  East  her 
self;  "and  I  concluded  he  might  ask  questions,  or 
encourage  you  to  talk  about — well,  about  the  tunnel, 
you  know;  so  I  just  came  along  to  keep  the  trail  free 
of  snags — see?" 

The  old  man  nodded,  and  watched  her  in  a  queer, 
dubious  way;  as  she  turned,  a  moment  later,  to  speak 
to  Stuart  at  the  door,  she  noticed  it,  and  laughed. 

"You  think  I'm  a  bit  loony,  don't  you,  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall?  Well,  I  forgive  you.  May  be,  some  day, 
you'll  see  I'm  not  on  a  blind  trail.  Come  and  see  us 
soon,  and  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  my  sanity." 


A  TRIO  IN  WITCHLAND.  193 

"Strange  that  any  mind  could  doubt  it,"  murmured 
Stuart.  "Come,  we  haven't  time  for  proofs  of  the  ques 
tion  now.  Good-bye,  MacDougall;  take  care  of  your 
self  for  the  winter.  Perhaps  I'll  get  back  in  the  sum 
mer  to  see  how  well  you  have  done  so." 

A  hearty  promise  of  welcome,  a  hand-clasp,  a  few 
more  words  of  admonition  and  farewell,  and  then  the 
two  young  people  rode  away  across  the  ground  deemed 
uncanny  by  the  natives;  and  the  old  man  went  back  to 
his  lonely  task. 

On  reaching  the  ranch  at  dusk,  it  was  Rachel  who  was 
mildly  hilarious,  seeming  to  have  changed  places  with 
the  gay  chanter  of  the  dawn.  He  was  not  sulky,  but 
something  pretty  near  it  was  in  his  manner,  and  rather 
intensified  under  Miss  Hardy's  badinage. 

She  told  the  rest  how  he  divided  his  whisky  with  the 
squaw;  hinted  at  a  fear  that  he  intended  adopting  the 
papoose;  gave  them  an  account  of  the  conversation 
between  himself  and  Skulking  Brave;  and  otherwise 
made  their  trip  a  subject  for  ridicule. 

"Did  you  meet  with  Indians?"  asked  Tillie,  trying 
to  get  the  girl  down  to  authentic  statements. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  we  did,  and  I  sent  them  home  to  you 
—or  told  them  to  come;  but  they  evidently  had  not 
time  for  morning  calls." 

"Were  they  friendly?" 

"Pretty  much — enough  so  to  ask  for  powder  and 
shot.  None  of  the  men  sighted  them? " 

'No." 

'And  no  other  Indians?" 

'No— why?" 

'Only  that  I  would  not  like  Talapa  to  be  roughly 
unhorsed." 

"Talapa!     Why,  Rachel,  that's—" 
13 


/94  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is — with  a  very  promising  family  in 
tow.  Say,  suppose  you  hustle  Aunty  up  about  that 
supper,  won't  you?  And  have  her  give  the  Stuart 
something  extra  nice;  he  has  had  a  hard  day  of  it." 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  195 


CHAPTER  V- 

A    VISIT    IN    THE    NIGHT-TIME. 

Yahka  kelapie. 

The  snows  had  dropped  a  soft  cloak  over  the  Koo- 
tenai  hills,  and  buried  the  valleys  in  great  beds  of 
crystallized  down.  Rachel's  prophecy  had  proven  a 
true  one,  for  the  clouds  that  day  had  been  a  visiting- 
card  from  winter. 

That  day  was  two  weeks  gone  now;  so  was  Stuart's 
leave-taking,  and  at  the  ranch  life  had  dropped  into 
the  old  lines,  but  with  an  impression  of  brightness 
lost.  Miss  Margaret  had  not  yet  got  over  the  habit  of 
turning  quickly  if  anyone  entered  the  room,  and  show 
ing  her  disappointment  in  a  frown  when  it  was  not  the 
one  looked  for. 

Aunty  Luce  declared  she  "nevah  did  see  a  chile  so 
petted  on  one  who  wasn't  no  kin." 

All  of  them  discovered  they  had  been  somewhat  "pet 
ted"  on  the  genial  nature.  Again  the  evenings  were 
passed  with  magazines  or  cards;  during  his  stay  they 
had  revived  the  primitive  custom  of  taking  turns  telling 
stories,  and  in  that  art  Stuart  had  proven  himself  a 
master,  sometimes  recounting  actual  experiences  of 
self  or  friends,  again  giving  voice  to  some  remembered 
gem  of  literature;  but,  whatever  the  theme,  it  was 
given  life,  through  the  sympathetic  tendencies  of  the 
man  who  had  so  much  the  timber  of  an  actor — or 
rather  an  artist — the  spirit  that  tends  to  reproduce 
or  create, 


196  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

If  Rachel  missed  him,  she  kept  quiet  about  it,  and 
ridiculed  the  rest  if  any  regrets  came  to  her  ears.  No 
one  minded  that  much;  Rachel  ridiculed  everyone — 
even  herself.  Sometimes  she  thought  Fate  seemed 
more  than  willing  to  help  her.  One  night,  two  weeks 
after  that  ride  from  the  "Place  of  the  Tamahnous,"  she 
was  struck  with  a  new  conviction  of  the  fact. 

Andrews  had  gune  to  Holland's  for  the  mail  and 
domestic  miscellany.  A  little  after  sun-up  he  had 
started,  and  the  darkness  was  three  hours  old,  and  yet 
no  sign  or  sound.  The  rest  had  finally  given  up  the 
idea  of  getting  any  letters  that  night,  and  had  gone 
to  bed.  As  usual,  Rachel — the  night-owl  of  the  fam 
ily — was  left  the  last  guard  at  the  warm  hearth.  Up 
stairs  she  could  hear  Jim's  voice  in  the  "boys'"  room, 
telling  Ivans  some  exploit  whose  character  was  denoted 
by  one  speech  that  made  its  way  through  the  ceiling 
of  pine  boards : 

"Yes,  sir;  my  horse  left  his'n  half  a  length  behind 
every  time  it  hit  the  ground." 

Ivans  grunted.  Evidently  he  had  listened  to  recitals 
from  the  same  source  before,  and  was  too  tired  for 
close  attention;  anyway,  the  remarks  of  this  Truthful 
James  drifted  into  a  monologue,  and  finally  into  silence, 
and  no  sound  of  life  was  left  in  the  house. 

She  had  been  reading  a  book  Stuart  had  sent  back 
to  her  by  Hardy,  the  day  he  left.  She  wondered  a 
little  why,  for  he  had  never  spoken  of  it  to  her.  It  was 
a  novel,  a  late  publication,  and  by  an  author  whose 
name  she  had  seen  affixed  to  magazine  work;  and  the 
charm  in  it  was  undeniable — the  charm  of  quiet  hearts 
and  restful  pictures,  that  proved  the  writer  a  lover  of 
the  tender,  sympathetic  tones  of  life,  rather  than  the 
storms  and  battles  of  human  emotions. 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  197 

It  held  the  girl  with  a  puzzling,  unusual  interest — • 
one  that  in  spite  of  her  would  revert  from  the  expressed 
thoughts  on  the  paper  to  the  personality  of  the  man  who 
had  sent  it  to  her,  and  she  found  in  many  instances,  a 
mystifying  likeness. 

She  sat  there  thinking  drowsily  over  it,  and  filled 
with  the  conviction  that  it  was  really  time  to  go  to 
bed;  but  the  big  chair  was  so  comfortable,  and  the 
little  simmer  of  the  burning  wood  was  like  a  lullaby, 
and  she  felt  herself  succumbing,  without  the  slight 
est  rebellion,  to  the  restful  influence.  She  was  aroused 
by  the  banging  of  a  door  somewhere,  and  decided  that 
Andrews  had  at  last  returned;  and  remembering  the 
number  of  things  he  had  to  bring  in,  concluded  to  go 
out  and  help  him.  Her  impulse  was  founded  as  much 
on  economy  as  generosity,  for  the  late  hour  was  pretty 
good  proof  that  Andrews  was  comfortably  drunk — also 
that  breakages  were  likely  to  be  in  order. 

It  was  cloudy — only  the  snow  gave  light;  the  air 
was  not  cold,  but  had  in  it  the  softness  of  rain.  Over 
it  she  walked  quickly,  fully  awakened  by  the  thought 
of  the  coffee  getting  a  bath  of  vinegar,  or  the  mail 
mucilaged  together  with  molasses. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  at  last ! "  she  remarked,  in  that  inane 
way  people  have  when  they  care  not  whether  you  are 
here  or  in  the  other  place.  "You  took  your  own  time." 

"Well,  I  didn't  take  any  other  fellow's!"  returned 
the  man  from  the  dark  corner  where  he  was  unsad 
dling  the  horse. 

Andrews  was  usually  very  obsequious  to  Miss  Rachel, 
and  she  concluded  he  must  be  pretty  drunk. 

"I  came  out  to  help  you  with  the  things,"  she 
remarked  from  her  post  in  the  door- way;  "where  are 
they?" 


198  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I've  got  'em  myself,"  came  the  gruff  tones  again 
from  the  corner.  "I  reckon  I'll  manage  without  help. 
You'd  better  skip  for  the  house — you'll  catch  cold 
likely." 

"Why,  it  isn't  cold — are  you?  I  guess  Aunty  left 
a  lunch  for  you.  I'll  go  and  warm  the  coffee." 

She  started,  and  then  stopped. 

"Say,  did  you  get  any  letters  for  me?" 

"No." 

With  a  grumble  about  her  ill-luck,  she  started  back 
toward  the  house,  the  late  arrival  following  a  little 
ways  behind  with  something  over  his  shoulder.  Once 
she  looked  back. 

"I  rather  think  Andrews  gets  on  dignified  drunks,"  she 
soliloquized;  "he  is  walking  pretty  straight,  anyway." 

She  set  the  coffee-pot  on  the  coals  and  glanced  at 
the  bundle  he  had  dropped  just  inside  the  door — it 
was  nothing  but  a  blanket  and  a  saddle. 

"Well,  upon  my  word!"  she  began,  and  rose  to  her 
feet;  but  she  did  not  say  any  more,  for,  in  turning  to 
vent  her  displeasure  on  Andrews,  she  was  tongue- 
tied  by  the  discovery  that  it  was  not  he  who  had  fol 
lowed  her  from  the  stable. 

"Genesee!"  she  breathed,  in  a  tone  a  little  above  a 
whisper.  "  Alah  mika  chahko!  " 

She  was  too  utterly  astonished  either  to  move  toward 
him  or  offer  her  hand;  but  the  welcome  in  her  Indian 
words  was  surely  plain  enough  for  him  to  understand. 
It  was  just  like  him,  however,  not  to  credit  it,  and  he 
smiled  a  grim  understanding  of  his  own,  and  walked 
over  to  a  chair. 

"Yes,  that's  who  it  is,"  he  remarked.  "I  am  sorry, 
for  the  sake  of  your  hopes,  that  it  isn't  the  other  fellow; 
but — here  I  am." 


"Genesee!"  she  breathed  in  a  tone  a  little  above  a  whisper. 
Page  198. 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  199 

He  had  thrown  his  hat  beside  him  and  leaned  back 
in  the  big  chair,  shutting  his  eyes  sleepily.  She  had 
never  seen  him  look  so  tired. 

"Tillikum,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,"  she  said, 
going  to  him  and  holding  out  her  hand.  He  smiled, 
but  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

"It  took  you  a  long  time  to  strike  that  trail,"  he 
observed.  "What  brought  you  out  to  the  stable?" 

''I  thought  you  were  Andrews,  and  that  you  were 
drunk  and  would  break  things." 

"Oh!" 

"And  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Jack." 

He  opened  his  eyes  then.  "Thank  you,  little  girl. 
That  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man  to  hear,  and  I  believe 
you.  Come  here.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  me  to  get 
that  word  from  Kalitan,  too.  I  reckon  you  know  all 
that,  though,  or  you  wouldn't  have  sent  it." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stooped  to  lift  the  pot  of 
coffee  back  from  the  blaze.  The  action  recalled  him 
to  the  immediate  practical  things,  and  he  said: 

"Think  I  can  stay  all  night  here?" 

"I  don't  know  of  any  reason  to  prevent  it." 

"Mowitza  was  used  up,  and  I  wanted  a  roof  for  her; 
but  I  didn't  allow  to  come  to  the  house  myself." 

"Where  would  you  have  slept?" 

"In  my  blanket,  on  the  hay." 

"Just  as  if  we  would  let  you  do  that  on  our  place! " 

"No  one  would  have  known  it  if  you  had  kept  away 
from  the  stable,  and  in  your  bed,  where  you  ought  to 
be." 

"Shall  I  go  there  at  once,  or  pour  your  coffee  first ? " 

"A  cup  of  coffee  would  be  a  treat;  I'm  dead  tired." 

The  coffee  was  drank,  and  the  lunch  for  Andrews 
was  appropriated  for  Genesee. 


200  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Have  you  come  back  to  the  Kootenai  country  for 
good?"  she  asked,  after  furnishing  him  with  whatever 
she  could  find  in  the  pantry  without  awakening  the  rest. 

"I  don't  know — it  may  be  for  bad,"  he  replied  doubt 
fully.  "I've  taken  the  trail  north  to  sound  any  tribes 
that  are  hostile,  and  if  troops  are  needed  they  are  to 
follow  me." 

"Up  into  this  country?" 

"I  reckon  so.     Are  you  afraid  of  fighting?" 

She  did  not  answer.  A  new  idea,  a  sudden  remem 
brance,  had  superseded  that  of  Indian  warfare. 

"How  long  since  you  left  Fort  Owens?"  she  asked. 

"Fifteen  days.     Why?" 

"A  friend  of  MacDougall's  started  in  that  direction 
about  two  weeks  ago. '  Davy  sent  a  kind  message  by 
him ;  but  you  must  have  passed  it  on  the  way. ' ' 

"Likely;  I've  been  in  the  Flathead  country,  and  that's 
wide  of  the  trail  to  Owens.  Who  was  the  man? " 

"His  name  is  Stuart." 

He  set  the  empty  cup  down,  and  looked  in  the  fire 
for  a  moment  with  a  steadiness  that  made  the  girl 
doubt  if  he  had  either  heard  or  noticed;  but  after  a 
little  he  spoke. 

"What  was  that  you  said?" 

"That  the  man's  name  was  Stuart." 

"Young  or  old?" 

"Younger  than  you." 

"And  he  has  gone  to  Fort  Owens?" 

"Started  for  there,  I  said." 

"Oh!  then  you  haven't  much  faith  in  a  tenderfoot 
getting  through  the  hostiles  or  snow-banks?" 

1 '  How  do  you  know  he  is  a  tenderfoot  ? ' ' 

He  glanced  up ;  she  was  looking  at  him  with  as  much 
of  a  question  in  her  eyes  as  her  words. 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  201 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  don't,"  he  answered,  picking  up 
his  hat  as  if  to  end  the  conversation.  ''I  knew  a  man 
called  Stuart  once,  but  I  don't  know  this  one.  Now, 
have  you  any  pressing  reason  for  loafing  down  here 
any  longer?  If  not,  I'll  take  my  blanket  and  that 
lounge  and  get  some  sleep.  I've  been  thirty-six  hours 
in  the  saddle." 

In  vain  she  tried  to  prevail  on  him  to  go  upstairs 
and  go  to  bed  "right." 

''This  is  right  enough  for  me,"  he  answered,  laying 
his  hat  and  gloves  on  a  table  and  unfastening  his  spurs. 
"No,  I  won't  go  up  to  the  men's  room.  Good-night." 

"But,  Jack—look  here— " 

"I  can't — too  sleepy  to  look  anywhere,  or  see  if  I  did 
look;"  and  his  revolvers  and  belt  were  laid  beside  the 
growing  collection  on  the  table. 

"But  Hen  will  scold  me  for  not  giving  you  better 
lodging." 

"Then  he  and  another  man  will  have  a  shooting- 
match  before  breakfast  to-morrow.  Are  you  going?" 

He  was  beginning  to  deliberately  unfasten  his  neck- 
gear  of  scarlet  and  bronze.  She  hesitated,  as  if  to  make 
a  final  protest,  but  failed  and  fled;  and  as  the  door 
closed  behind  her,  she  heard  another  half-laughing 
"Klahowya!" 

Early  in  the  morning  she  was  down-stairs,  to  find 
Aunty  Luce  half  wild  with  terror  at  the  presence  of  a 
stranger  who  had  taken  possession  of  the  sitting-room 
during  the  night. 

"Cain't  see  his  face  for  the  blanket,  honey,"  she 
whispered  shrilly,  "but  he's  powerful  big;  an'— an'  just 
peep  through  the  door  at  the  guns  and  things— it's 
wah  times  right  ovah  again,  shueh  as  I'm  tellen'  yo', 
chile." 


202  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Be  quiet,  Aunty,  and  get  breakfast;  it's  a  friend  of 
ours." 

"Hi-yi!  I  know  all  'bout  them  kind  o'  friends,  honey; 
same  kind  as  comes  South  in  wah  times,  a  trampen' 
into  houses  o'  quality  folks  an  sleepen'  whah  they  liked, 
an'  callen'  theyselves  friends.  He's  a  moven'  now! — 
less  call  the  folks ! ' ' 

The  attempted  yell  was  silenced  by  Rachel  clap 
ping  her  hand  over  the  full  lips  and  holding  her 
tightly. 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  she  admonished  the  old  woman 
impatiently.  "I  let  the  man  in  last  night;  it's  all  right. 
Go  and  get  him  a  good  breakfast." 

Aunty  Luce  eyed  the  girl  as  if  she  thought  her  a 
conspirator  against  the  safety  of  the  house,  and  despite 
precautions,  managed  to  slip  upstairs  to  Tillie  with  a 
much-garbled  account  of  thieves  in  the  night,  and  war 
times,  and  tramps,  and  Miss  Rache. 

Much  mystified,  the  little  woman  dressed  quickly, 
and  came  down  the  stairs  to  find  her  husband  shaking 
hands  quite  heartily  with  Genesee.  Instantly  she  for 
got  the  multitudinous  reasons  there  were  for  banning 
him  from  the  bosom  of  one's  family,  and  found  herself 
telling  him  he  was  very  welcome. 

' '  I  reckon  in  your  country  a  man  would  wait  to  hear 
someone  say  that  before  stowing  his  horse  in  their 
stables,  or  himself  in  their  beds,"  he  observed. 

His  manner  was  rather  quiet,  but  one  could  see  that 
the  heartiness  of  their  greeting  was  a  great  pleasure, 
and,  it  may  be,  a  relief. 

"Do  you  call  that  a  bed?"  asked  Tillie,  with  con 
temptuous  warmth.  "I  do  think,  Mr.  Genesee,  you 
might  have  wakened  some  of  us,  and  given  us  a  chance 
to  treat  a  guest  to  something  better." 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  203 

"I  suppose,  then,  I  am  not  counted  in  with  the  fam- 
ily,"  observed  Rachel,  meekly,  from  the  background. 
"I  was  on  hand  to  do  the  honors,  but  wasn't  allowed 
to  do  them.  I  even  went  to  the  stable  to  receive  the 
late-comer,  and  was  told  to  skip  into  the  house,  and 
given  a  general  understanding  that  I  interfered  with 
his  making  himself  comfortable  in  the  hay-mow." 

"Did  she  go  out  there  at  night,  and  alone,  after  we 
were  all  in  bed?"  And  Tillie's  tone  indicated  volumes 
of  severity. 

"Yes,"  answered  Genesee;  for  Rachel,  with  a  martyr- 
like  manner,  said  nothing,  and  awaited  her  lecture ;  ' '  she 
thought  it  was  your  man  Andrews." 

"Yes,  and  she  would  have  gone  just  as  quickly  if  it 
had  been  Indians — or— or — anybody.  She  keeps  me 
nervous  half  the  time  with  her  erratic  ways." 

"I  rather  think  she's  finding  fault  with  me  for  giving 
you  that  coffee  and  letting  you  sleep  on  the  lounge," 
said  Rachel;  and  through  Tillie's  quick  disclaimer  her 
own  shortcomings  were  forgotten,  at  least  for  the  time. 
The  little  matron's  caution,  that  always  lagged  woefully 
behind  her  impulse,  obtruded  itself  on  her  memory 
several  times  before  the  breakfast  was  over;  and  think 
ing  of  the  reasons  why  a  man  of  such  character  should 
not  be  received  as  a  friend  by  ladies,  especially  girls, 
she  was  rather  glad  when  she  heard  him  say 
he  was  to  push  on  into  the  hills  as  soon  as  possi 
ble 

"I  only  stopped  last  night  because  I  had  to;  Mowitza 
and  I  were  both  used  up.  I  was  trying  to  make  Mac- 
Dougall's,  but  when  I  crossed  the  trail  to  your  place, 
I  reckoned  we  would  fasten  to  it — working  through  the 
snow  was  telling  on  her;  but  she  is  all  right  this  morn 
ing." 


204  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Rachel  told  him  of  her  visit  to  the  old  man,  and  his 
care  of  the  cabin  on  the  Tamahnous  ground;  of  rumors 
picked  up  from  the  Kootenai  tribe  as  to  the  chance  of 
trouble  with  the  Blackfeet,  and  many  notes  that  were 
of  interest  to  this  hunter  of  feeling  on  the  Indian  ques 
tion.  He  commented  on  her  Chinook,  of  which  she 
had  gained  considerable  knowledge  in  the  past  year, 
and  looked  rather  pleased  when  told  it  had  been  gained 
from  Kalitan. 

"You  may  see  him  again  if  I  have  to  send  for  troops 
up  here,  and  it  looks  that  way  now,"  he  remarked,  much 
to  the  terror  and  satisfaction  of  Aunty  Luce,  who  was  a 
house  divided  against  itself  in  her  terror  of  Indian 
trouble  and  her  desire  to  prove  herself  a  prophetess. 

Jim  was  all  anticipation.  After  a  circus  or  a  variety 
show,  nothing  had  for  him  the  charm  that  was  exerted 
by  the  prospect  of  a  fight ;  but  his  hopes  in  that  direction 
were  cooled  by  the  scout's  statement  that  the  troops 
were  not  coming  with  the  expectation  of  war,  but  simply 
to  show  the  northern  tribes  its  futility,  and  that  the 
Government  was  strengthening  its  guard  for  protection 
all  along  the  line. 

"Then  yer  only  ringin'  in  a  bluff  on  the  hostiles!?i 
ventured  the  sanguinary  hopeful  disgustedly.  "I 
counted  on  business  if  the  'yaller'  turned  out,"  meaning 
by  the  "yaller"  the  cavalry,  upon  whose  accoutrements 
the  yellow  glints  show. 

"Never  mind,  sonny,"  said  Genesee;  "if  we  make  a 
bluff,  it  won't  be  on  an  empty  hand.  But  I  must  take 
the  trail  again,  and  make  up  for  time  lost  in  sleep 
here." 

"When  may  we  look  for  you  back?" 

It  was  Hardy  who  spoke,  but  something  had  taken 
the  free-heartiness  out  of  his  tones;  he  looked  just 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  205 

a  trifle  uncomfortable.  Evidently  Tillie  had  been  giv 
ing  him  a  hint  of  second  thoughts,  and  while  trying  to 
adopt  them  they  fitted  his  nature  too  clumsily  not  to  be 
apparent. 

His  guest,  however,  had  self-possession  enough  for 
both. 

"Don't  look  for  me,"  he  advised,  taking  in  the  group 
with  a  comprehensive  glance;  "that  is,  don't  hurt  the 
sight  of  your  eyes  in  the  business;  the  times  are  uncer 
tain,  and  I  reckon  I'm  more  uncertain  than  the  times. 
I'm  obliged  to  you  for  the  sleep  last  night,  and  the  cover 
for  Mowitza.  If  I  can  ever  do  you  as  good  a  turn,  just 
sing  out." 

Hardy  held  out  his  hand  impulsively.  "You  did  a 
heap  more  for  us  a  year  ago,  for  which  we  never  had  a 
chance  to  make  return,"  he  said  in  his  natural,  hearty 
manner. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have  had,"  contradicted  Rachel's  cool 
tones  from  the  porch;  "you  have  the  chance  now." 

Genesee  darted  one  quick  glance  at  her  face.  Some 
thing  in  it  was  evidently  a  compensation,  and  blotted 
out  the  bitterness  that  had  crept  into  his  last  speech, 
for  with  a  freer  manner  he  took  the  proffered  hand. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  easily.  "I  was  right 
glad  of  the  trip  myself,  so  it  wasn't  any  work;  but 
at  the  present  speaking  the  days  are  not  picnic  days, 
and  I  must  'git.'  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Hardy,  good-bye; 
boys." 

Then  he  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  at  Rachel. 
"Klahowya—tillikum"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat  in  a  final 
farewell  to  all. 

But  in  the  glance  toward  her  she  felt  he  had  said 
"thank  you"  as  plainly  as  he  had  in  the  Indian  lan 
guage  called  her  "friend." 


206  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Tillie,  turning  into  the  house  as  he 
rode  away.  "I  wish  the  man  had  staid  away,  or  else  that 
we  had  known  more  about  him  when  we  first  met  him. 
It  is  very  awkward  to  change  one's  manner  to  him,  and 
— and  yet  it  seems  the  only  thing  to  do." 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Rachel,  with  an  altogether 
unnecessary  degree  of  contempt,  "it  is  the  only  thing 
for  you  to  do." 

Tillie  sat  down  miserably  under  this  stroke,  the 
emphasis  denoting  very  plainly  the  temper  of  the 
speaker. 

"Oh,  don't  be  ugly,  Rache,"  she  begged.  "I  really 
feel  wretched  about  it.  I  thought  at  first  all  the  free 
dom  of  social  laws  out  here  was  so  nice*  but  it  isn't. 
It  has  a  terrible  side  to  it,  when  the  greatest  scamp  is 
of  as  much  account  as  the  finest  gentleman,  and  expects 
to  be  received  on  the  same  footing.  He — he  had  no 
right  to  come  imposing  on  us  at  the  first;"  and  with 
this  addition  to  her  defense,  Tillie  tried  to  ensconce 
herself  behind  the  barricade  of  injured  faith,  but  feel 
ing  that  her  protests  were  only  weakening  her  argu 
ment. 

"To  the  best  of  my  recollection,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  supercilious  in  her  manner,  "he 
neither  came  near  us  nor  advanced  any  desire  for  friend 
ship  on  his  own  account.  We  hunted  him  up,  and 
insisted  on  talking  natural  history  and  singing  songs 
with  him,  and  pressing  on  him  many  invitations  to  visit 
us,  invitations  which  he  avoided  accepting.  He  was 
treated,  not  as  an  equal  of  the  other  gentlemen,  but  as  a 
superior;  and  I  believe  it  is  the  only  time  we  ever  did 
him  justice." 

"Yes,  he  did  seem  very  nice  in  those  days;  but  you 
see  it  was  all  false  pretense.  Think  of  the  life  that  he 


A  VISIT  IN  THE  NIGHT-TIME.  207 

had  come  from,  and  that  he  went  back  to!  It's  no  use 
talking,  Rachel — there  is  only  a  right  way  and  a  wrong 
way  in  this  world.  He  has  shown  his  choice,  and 
self-respecting  people  can  only  keep  rid  of  him  as  much 
as  possible.  I  don't  like  to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  it 
makes  it  very  awkward  for  us  that  we  have  accepted 
any  favors  from  him." 

"The  obligation  rests  rather  lightly  on  your  shoul 
ders  to  cause  you  much  fretting,"  said  the  girl  bitterly; 
"and  he  thought  so  much  of  you,  too — so  much." 

Her  voice,  that  began  so  calmly,  ended  a  little  uncer 
tainly,  and  she  walked  out  of  the  door. 

Hardy,  coming  in  a  moment  later,  found  Tillie  divided 
between  penitence  and  pettishness,  and  fighting  her 
way  to  comfort  through  tears. 

"I  know  I'm  right,  Hen,  about  the  whole  question," 
she  whimpered,  when  safely  perched  on  the  strong 
hold  of  his  knee,  "and  that  is  what  makes  it  so  aggra 
vating." 

"To  know  you're  right?" 

"No;  but  to  have  Rachel,  who  knows  she  is  in  the 
wrong,  take  that  high-handed  way  about  the  affair, 
and  end  up  by  making  me  feel  ashamed.  Yes,  she 
did,  Hen— just  that.  I  felt  so  ashamed  I  cried,  and 
yet  I  knew  I  was  right  all  the  time — now  what  are  you 
laughing  at?" 


208  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  NORTH  PARK. 

Reveille!     Boots  and  saddles!    Taps! 

About  the  Hardy  ranch  the  changes  were  rung  on 
all  those  notes  of  camp,  from  early  morn  till  dewy 
eve,  by  the  melodious  imitations  of  Jim. 

Stories  of  grizzlies  and  black  bear  had  grown  passJ; 
even  the  more  rare  accounts  of  wild  horses  spotted  in 
some  secluded  valley  failed  to  stir  his  old-time  interest. 
All  else  had  drifted  into  nothingness  to  him,  for  the 
"yaller"  had  come. 

It  had  been  stationed  in  the  North  Park  for  ten 
days — days  of  wild  commotion  at  the  ranch,  for  North 
Park  was  only  two  miles  away,  following  the  little 
branch  of  Missoula  Creek  that  flowed  north  to  the  Koo- 
tenai  River.  The  necessary  errands  to  and  fro  between 
the  two  points  of  residence  were  multitudinous,  for 
Jim  could  never  remember  but  one  thing  at  a  time 
of  late;  and  the  retraced  steps  he  took  would  have 
tired  out  anyone  less  curious.  He  was  disappointed, 
at  first,  to  find  that  only  one  company  had  been  sent 
up  to  guard  the  gate  into  the  Kootenai  country.  It 
did  not  look  as  if  they  feared  any  outbreak  or  active 
service,  and  if  it  had  not  been  in  the  most  miserable 
of  seasons,  they  would  have  had  much  the  appear 
ance  of  a  pleasure  party;  but  the  rains  were  in  the 
valleys  and  the  snows  were  on  the  hills,  and  camp 
life  under  those  circumstances  is  a  breeder  of  rayless 
monotony. 


NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  NORTH  PARK.  209 

"And  your  ranch  up  here  has  proved  the  oasis  in 
our  desert,"  declared  Fred  Dreyer  in  a  burst  of  grati 
tude  to  Rachel,  just  as  if  the  locating  of  the  sheep 
farm  in  that  particular  part  of  the  world  was  due  to 
the  sagacity  and  far-sightedness  of  Miss  Hardy;  "and 
when  Mr.  Stuart  told  us  at  the  Fort  that  we  should 
have  so  charming  a  neighbor,  I  wanted  to  throw  up 
my  plate  and  give  three  cheers.  We  were  at  mess — 
at  dinner,  I  mean.  But  I  restrained  my  enthusiasm, 
because  my  leave  to  come  along  was  only  provisional 
at  that  time,  and  depended  on  my  good  behavior; 
but  once  here,  my  first  impulse  was  to  give  you  a  big 
hug  instead  of  the  conventional  hand-shake,  for  there 
are  no  girls  at  the  Fort,  and  I  was  hungry  for  the  sight 
of  one." 

It  was  not,  as  one  may  suppose,  one  of  the  uniformed 
warriors  of  the  camp  who  expressed  himself  with  this 
enthusiasm,  though  several  looked  as  if  they  would 
like  to,  but  it  was  the  most  petite  little  creature  in 
petticoats — to  her  own  disgust;  and  to  mitigate  the 
femininity  of  them  as  much  as  possible,  they  were  of 
regular  army  blue,  their  only  trimming  belt  and  bands 
of  the  "yaller,"  an  adornment  Jim  openly  envied  her, 
and  considered  senseless  when  wasted  on  a  girl.  She 
was  Miss  Frederick  Dreyer,  the  daughter  of  Major 
Dreyer,  of  the  Fort,  and  the  sweetheart  of  most  of  the 
men  in  it,  from  the  veterans  down. 

"They  all  think  they  own  me,"  she  confided  plain 
tively  to  Rachel,  "just  because  I'm  little.  It's  only 
a  year  and  a  half  since  they  quit  calling  me  'Baby 
Fred' — think  of  that!  When  you're  owned  by  a 
whole  regiment,  it's  so  hard  to  gather  up  any  dignity, 
or  keep  it  if  you  do  get  hold  of  it;  don't  you  think 
so?" 

14 


210  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I  have  had  no  experience  in  that  line,"  answered 
Rachel.  "You  see  I  have  never  been  owned  by  a  regiment, 
nor  by  anybody  else." 

"How  delightfully  independent  you  are!"  and  Miss 
Fred,  encircled  by  comrades,  seemed  really  to  envy  the 
other  her  loneness  in  the  world.  "No  orderly  forever 
on  duty  at  your  heels,  and — " 

"And  no  lieutenant,"  put  in  Rachel;  and  then  they 
both  laughed,  and  the  younger  told  the  elder  she  was 
ridiculous,  for  the  lieutenants  were  not  a  bit  worse 
than  the  rest. 

"Worse?  Not  at  all.  I  could  even  imagine  circum 
stances  under  which  they  might  be  preferable,  and 
I'm  not  gifted  with  much  imagination,  either." 

"I  know  someone  who  thinks  you  are,  and  an  envi 
able  imagination  at  that,"  laughed  Miss  Fred. 

Rachel  opened  her  eyes  a  little  in  questioning,  but 
diid  not  speak. 

"Why,  it  was  Mr.  Stuart.  He  talked  about  you  a 
good  deal  at  the  Fort.  You  know  there  are  several 
officers  who  have  their  wives  with  them,  and  he  was 
asking  them  lots  of  questions  about  typical  Western 
girls,  but  they  didn't  seem  to  know  any,  for  at  a  military 
fort  girls  don't  remain  girls  long — unless  they're  half 
boys,  like  me.  Someone  always  snaps  them  up  and 
tacks  'Mrs.'  to  their  name,  and  that  settles  them." 

"Poor  girls!" 

"Oh,  bless  you!  they  would  say  that  same  thing  of 
anyone  who  visited  a  fort  and  did  not  become  married, 
or  engaged — well,  I  should  think  so!" 

"Do  you  come  in  for  your  share  of  commiseration?" 
asked  Tillie,  who  was  listening  with  interest  to  this 
gossip  of  military  life  that  seemed  strange  for  a  woman 
to  share. 


NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  NORTH  PARK.  211 

"Me?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  am  not  worth  their  notice 
in  that  respect.  They  haven't  begun  to  treat  me  as 
if  I  was  grown  up,  yet;  that's  the  disadvantage  of 
being  little — you  never  can  impress  people  with  a 
belief  in  your  own  importance.  Yesterday,  Lieutenant 
Murray  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  that,  when  all 
was  said  and  done,  I  was  only  a  'camp  follower'  hang 
ing  onto  the  coat-tails  of  the  army,  and  likely  to  be 
mustered  out  of  the  regiment  at  the  discretion  of  the 
superior  officers — my  lords  and  masters!  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ? ' ' 

That  you  must  have  made  things  rather  warm  for 
the  poor  Lieutenant  to  provoke  a  speech  so  unnatural 
to  his  usual  courtesy,"  answered  Rachel.  "Whatever 
Mr.  Stuart  may  credit  me  with,  I  have  not  imagina 
tion  enough  to  conceive  that  speech  being  unprovoked." 

"Well,  if  you're  going  to  champion  his  High-Mighti 
ness,  I'll  tell  you  nothing  more.  Mr.  Stuart  said  you 
were  so  sympathetic,  too." 

"I  should  say  it  was  the  Stuart  who  was  imaginative," 
laughed  Rachel;  "ask  Tillie." 

"But,  he  did  say  that — seriously,"  insisted  Miss 
Fred,  turning  to  Tillie.  "When  Mrs.  Captain  Sneath 
was  curious  about  you,  he  said  you  had  a  delicate 
imagination  that  would  rind  beauty  in  things  that  to 
many  natures  would  be  commonplace,  and  topped  off  a 
long  list  of  virtues  by  saying  you  were  the  most  loyal 
of  friends." 

Tillie  sat  looking  at  Rachel  in  astonishment. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  the  man?"  she 
asked;  "giving  him  some  potion  brewed  by  an  Indian 
witch?  A  sure  'hoodoo'  it  must  be,  to  warp  a  man's 
judgment  like  that!  And  you  were  not  so  very  nice 
to  him,  either," 

14 


212  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Wasn't  she?"  asked  Fred  in  amazement.  "Well  I 
think  it  would  be  hard  to  be  anything  else  to  so  charm 
ing  and  so  clever  a  man.  Do  you  know  he  is  very 
rich?" 

"No,"  answered  Tillie.  "We  only  knew  that  he  was 
a  physician  out  here  for  a  change  of  air.  He  is  splendid 
company." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so!  We  were  all  in  love  with 
him  at  the  Fort.  Mrs.  Sneath  says  he  has  given  up 
medicine,  and — I  believe  it's  something  of  a  secret,  but 
it  doesn't  matter  in  this  far-out  corner  of  the  world 
—he  is  something  of  a  writer — a  writer  of  fiction. 
The  way  I  heard  it  was  through  the  Captain,  who  used 
to  know  him  at  college.  He  says  that  the  Stuart,  as 
you  call  him,  is  most  likely  out  here  studying  up  mate 
rial  for  some  work — a  novel,  may  be.  Wouldn't  you 
love  to  read  it  ? " 

"I  can't  say  unless  I  have  some  idea  of  the  class  of 
work.  What  has  he  done  ?" 

It  was  Rachel  who  was  the  questioner,  and  who,  in 
the  light  of  a  reasonable  cause  for  his  presence  in  the 
Kootenai,  felt  herself  all  in  a  moment  a  bit  of  a  fool  for 
some  of  her  old  fancies. 

"I  don't  know — wish  I  did,"  said  Miss  Fred  promptly. 
"He  writes  under  an  assumed  name.  Mrs.  Sneath 
wouldn't  tell  me,  for  fear  I'd  bother  him  about  it,  I 
suppose;  but  if  he  comes  up  here  to  camp,  I'll  find  out 
before  he  leaves — see  if  I  don't." 

"He  is  not  likely  to  pay  a  visit  up  here  in  this  season 
of  the  year,"  remarked  Rachel.  "I  thought  he  was 
going  East  from  Owens." 

"He  did  talk  like  that  when  he  first  went  down 
there,  and  that's  what  made  Captain  Sneath  decide 
he  was  studying  up  the  country;  for  all  at  once  he 


NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  NORTH  PARK.  213 

said  he  might  stay  out  West  all  winter,  and  seemed 
to  take'  quite  an  interest  in  the  Indian  question — made 
friends  with  all  the  scouts  down  there,  and  talked 
probabilities  with  even  the  few  'good'  Indians  about 
the  place.  He  told  me  he  might  see  me  again,  if  I 
was  coming  up  with  the  company.  So  he  is  studying 
up  something  out  here — sure." 

Nobody  answering  this  speculation,  she  was  silent 
a  bit,  looking  at  Rachel,  who  had  picked  up  a  book  off 
the  table;  and  then  she  began  to  laugh. 

"Well — "  and  Rachel  glanced  over  at  her,  noting 
that  she  looked  both  amused  and  hesitating — "well, 
what  is  it?" 

"I  was  only  thinking  how — how  funny  it  would  be 
if  you  happened  to  be  that  '  something. ' ' 

But  Rachel's  answering  laugh,  as  she  pushed  the 
book  away,  signified  that  it  was  the  least  probable  of 
all  fancies. 

"It  is  you  who  should  write  romances,  instead  of 
the  Stuart,"  she  replied — "you  and  Tillie  here.  She 
has  a  good  deal  of  the  same  material  in  her — that  of 
a  match-maker.  She  has  spied  out  life-partners  for 
me  in  all  sorts  of  characters  out  here,  from  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall  down  to  Jim.  They  are  wonderfully  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

Just  outside  the  gate,  the  blue  of  military  garb 
showed  the  coming  of  the  usual  afternoon  callers  from 
Camp  Kootenai,  among  them  the  Major,  commander 
of  the  compnay,  the  only  occasional  rebel  being  his 
petite  non-commissioned  officer  in  petticoats.  A  tall 
young  fellow  in  lieutenant's  uniform  halted  on  his 
way  out  to  exchange  greeting;  and  if  the  daughter 
complained  of  the  young  soldier's  lack  of  deference, 
the  father  had  no  reason  to,  for  in  his  eyes,  as  he 


214  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

saluted,  shone  something  nearer  affection  than  mere 
duty — a  feeling  that  he  shared  with  every  man  in  the 
command,  for  Major  Dreyer  was  a  universal  favor 
ite. 

"No  later  news  of  that  scout,  Genesee?"  asked  the 
younger  as  they  separated. 

"No;  but  we  can  expect  him  soon  now  for  that  red 
shadow  of  his,  Kalitan,  just  loped  into  camp.  And,  by 
the  way,"  added  the  older  officer,  "he  mentioned  that 
he  passed  our  friend  Stuart  back  at  the  settlement.  He 
is  coming  up  this  way  again." 

"Tell  Miss  Fred  that,  Major.  When  I  saw  her,  an 
hour  ago,  she  needed  something  to  put  her  in  a  good 
humor." 

"Ah!     Good-evening,  Lieutenant." 

"Good-evening,  Major." 

The  minute  the  subordinate's  back  was  turned,  Miss 
Fred,  with  a  running  jump  that  would  have  done  Jim 
credit,  landed  almost  on  the  Major's  shoulder.  He 
gave  her  a  ferocious  hug,  and  dropped  her  plump  on 
her  feet  with  a  stern — 

"Attention!" 

Quick  as  light  the  little  hand  was  raised  in  salute, 
and  the  little  figure  gathered  together  its  scattered 
dignity  to  make  a  soldierly  appearance. 

"Private  Dreyer,  I  have  been  met  on  the  outposts 
with  a  message  telling  me  of  a  disorganized  temper  that 
should  belong  to  your  command.  What  have  you  to 
say  for  yourself?" 

Instantly  the  role  of  the  soldier  was  dropped,  and  that 
of  the  girl  with  a  temper  took  its  place. 

"Oh,  he  told  you,  did  he?"  she  asked,  with  a  wrathful 
glance  at  the  figure  retreating  toward  camp.  "Well, 
just  wait  until  I  go  riding  with  him  again!  He's  called 


NEIGHBORS  OF  THE  NORTH  PARK.  215 

me  a  camp  follower,  and — and  everything  else  that  was 
uncivil." 

"Ah!     And  what  did  you  do?" 

"I?     Why  nothing,  of  course." 

"Nothing?" 

"Well,  I  did  threaten  to  go  over  and  turn  them  out  of 
the  cabin  that  was  built  for  me,  but — 

"But  that  was  a  mere  trifle  in  this  tropical  climate. 
I've  no  doubt  it  would  do  them  good  to  sleep  under 
the  stars  instead  of  a  roof;  and  then  it  would  give  you 
an  opportunity  to  do  some  wholesale  nursing,  if  they 
caught  colds  all  around." 

' '  Just  as  if  I  would ! ' ' 

"Just  as  if  you  would  not!  And  Lieutenant  Murray 
would  come  in  for  the  worse  medicine  and  the  biggest 
doses." 

"If  his  constitution  is  equal  to  his  impudence,  it 
would  take  stupendous  doses  to  have  any  effect.  I 
wish  he  could  be  sent  back  to  the  Fort." 

"Won't  sending  him  up  among  the  Indians  do  just 
as  well  ? ' ' 

"Y-yes.     Are  you  going  to,  papa?" 

"Ah!   now  you  grow  inquisitive." 

"I  do  think,"  said  Tillie,  "you  all  plague  her  a  great 
deal." 

"They  just  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  joke  instead  of  a 
girl,"  complained  Fred.  "They  began  it  before  I  was 
born  by  giving  me  a  boy's  name,  and  it's  been  kept  up 
ever-since." 

"Never  mind,  Baby,"  he  said  soothingly;  "if  I  had 
not  made  a  boy  of  you  I  could  not  have  had  you  with 
me,  so  the  cause  was  vital." 

They  both  laughed,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
cause  was  vital  to  them,  and  their  companionship 


216  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

very  much  of  a  necessity.  Its  interruptions  since  her 
babyhood  had  been  few  and  short,  and  her  education, 
picked  up  on  the  frontier,  had  taught  her  that  in  the 
world  there  was  just  one  place  for  her — in  the  saddle, 
and  beside  her  father,  just  as  her  mother  had  ridden 
beside  him  before  Fred  was  born. 


'A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  217 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"A    WOMAN    WHO    WAS    LOST LONG    AGO?" 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Kalitan  called 
at  the  ranch;  and  Miss  Fred,  accustomed  as  she  was 
to  the  red  men,  grew  rather  enthusiastic  over  this 
haughty,  graceful  specimen,  who  gave  her  one  glance 
at  the  door  and  walked  past  her  into  the  house — as 
she  afterward  described  it,  "just  as  if  she  had  been 
one  of  the  wooden  door-posts." 

"Rashell  Hardy?"  was  nil  he  said;  and  without  more 
ado  Miss  Fred  betook  herself  up  the  stairs  to  do  his  im 
plied  bidding  and  hunt  Miss  Hardy. 

"I  rather  think  it's  the  grand  mogul  of  all  the 
Kootenais,"  she  said,  in  announcing  him.  "No,  he 
didn't  give  any  card;  but  his  personality  is  too 
striking  to  be  mistaken,  if  one  has  ever  seen  him  or 
heard  him  speak.  He  looked  right  over  my  head, 
and  made  me  feel  as  if  I  was  about  two  feet  high." 

"Young  Indian?" 

"Yes,  but  he  looks  like  a  young  faun.  That  one 
never  came  from  a  scrub  race." 

"I'll  ask  him  to  stay  to  dinner,"  laughed  Rachel; 
"if  anything  will  cure  one  of  a  tendency  to  idealize 
an  Indian,  it  is  to  see  him  satisfying  the  inner  man. 
Come  down  and  talk  to  him.  It  is  Kalitan." 

"Oh,  it  is  Kalitan,  is  it?  And  pray  what  it  is  that— 
a  chief  rich  in  lineage  and  blooded  stock  ?  His  assurance 
Speaks  of  wealth  and  power,  I  should  say,  and  his  manner 


218  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

shows  one  a  Fenimore  Cooper  spirit  come  to  life.  How 
am  I  as  a  guesser?" 

"One  of  the  worst  in  the  world.  Kalitan  is  really  a 
handsome  humbug  in  some  ways.  That  superb  manner 
of  his  is  the  only  stock  in  trade  he  possesses  beyond  his 
swift  feet;  but  the  idea  of  importance  he  manages  to 
convey  speaks  wonders  for  his  strength  of  will.  Come 
along!" 

"Klahowya,  Rashell  Hardy?"  he  said;  and  stepping 
solemnly  forward,  shook  her  hand  in  a  grave,  cere 
monious  fashion.  Rachel  told  him  the  other  lady 
was  her  friend,  by  way  of  introduction,  and  he  widened 
his  mouth  ever  so  little  in  a  smile,  but  that  was  the 
only  sign  of  acknowledgement  he  gave;  and  when 
Rachel  spoke  to  him  in  English  he  would  not  answer, 
but  sat  stolidly  looking  into  the  fire  until  she  saw  what 
was  wrong  and  addressed  him  in  Chinook.  "Rashell 
Hardy  need  not  so  soon  forget,"  he  reminded  her 
briefly;  and  then  went  on  with  his  speech  to  her  of 
where  he  had  been;  the  wonders  he  had  done  in  the 
way  of  a  runner,  and  all  else  of  self-glorification  that 
had  occurred  in  the  past  months.  Many  times  the 
name  of  his  chief  was  uttered  in  a  way  that  impressed 
on  a  listener  the  idea  that  among  the  troops  along  the 
frontier  there  were  two  men  who  were  really  worthy 
of  praise — a  scout  and  a  runner.  "Kalitan  tired  now 
—pretty  much,"  he  wound  up,  as  a  finale;  "come  up 
Kootenai  country  to  rest,  may  be,  while  spring  comes. 
Genesee  he  rest,  too,  may  be — may  be  not." 

"Where,  Kalitan?" 

"S'pose  camp — s'pose  may  be  Tamahnous  cabin;  not 
here  yet." 

"Coming  back?" 

Kalitan  nodded,  and  arose. 


She  nearly  dropped  it  in  her  fright.     Page  219. 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  219 

"Come  see  you,  may  be,  sometime,  often,"  he  said,  as 
if  conferring  a  special  honor  by  promised  visits;  and 
then  he  stalked  out  as  he  had  stalked  in,  only  checking 
his  gait  at  sight  of  Aunty  Luce  coming  in  from  the 
kitchen  with  a  dish  of  cold  meat.  She  nearly  dropped 
it  in  her  fright,  and  closed  her  eyes  in  silent  prayer  and 
terror;  when  she  opened  them  the  enemy  had  left  the 
porch. 

"Good  Lawd,  Miss  Rache!"  she  gasped.  "He's 
skeered  me  before  bad  enough,  but  this  the  fust  time 
he  evah  stopped  stock  an'  glare  at  me!  I's  gwine  to 
complain  to  the  milantary — I  is,  shuah." 

"You  are  a  great  old  goose!"  said  Rachel  brusquely. 
"He  wasn't  looking  at  you,  but  at  that  cold  meat." 

There  seemed  a  general  gathering  of  the  clans  along 
the  Kootenai  valley  that  winter.  With  the  coming 
north  of  Genesee  had  come  the  troops,  then  Kalitan, 
then  their  mercurial  friend  of  the  autumn— the  Stuart; 
and  down  from  Scot's  Mountain  came  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall,  one  fair  day,  to  join  the  circle  that  was  a  sort 
of  reunion.  And  among  the  troops  were  found  many 
good  fellows  who  were  so  glad  of  an  evening  spent  at 
the  ranch  that  never  a  night  went  by  without  a  party 
gathered  there. 

"The  heft  o'  them  does  everything  but  sleep  here," 
complained  Aunty  Luce;  "an'  all  the  other  ones  look 
jealous  'cause  Mr.  Stuart  does  that." 

For  Hardy  and  his  wife  had  insisted  on  his  stop 
ping  with  them,  as  before,  though  much  of  his  time 
was  spent  at  the  camp.  There  was  something  about 
him  that  made  him  a  companion  much  desired  by 
men;  Rachel  had  more  opportunity  to  observe  this 
now  than  when  their  circle  was  so  much  smaller.  That 
gay  good-humor,  with  its  touches  of  serious  feeling, 


220  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

and  the  delicate  sympathy  that  was  always  alive  to 
earnest  emotion — she  found  that  those  traits  were  keys 
to  the  hearts  of  men  as  well  as  women;  and  a  smile 
here,  a  kind  word  there,  or  a  clasp  of  the  hand,  were 
the  only  arts  needed  to  insure  him  the  unsought  friend 
ship  of  almost  every  man  in  the  company. 

"It's  the  gift  that  goes  wi'  the  name,"  said  MacDou* 
gall  one  day  when  someone  spoke  of  the  natural  charm 
of  the  man's  manner.  "It's  just  that — no  less.  No,  o' 
course  he  does  na  strive  for  it;  it's  but  a  bit  o'  nature. 
A  blessin',  say  you,  Miss?  Well,  mayhaps;  but  to  the 
old  stock  it  proved  but  a  curse." 

"It  seems  a  rather  fair  life  to  connect  the  idea  of  a 
curse  with,"  remarked  the  Major;  "but  I  rather  think 
he  has  seen  trouble,  too.  Captain  Sneath  said  some 
thing  to  that  effect,  I  believe — some  sudden  death  of 
wife  and  children  in  an  epidemic  down  in  Mexico." 

"Married!  That  settles  the  romance,"  said  Fred; 
"but  he  is  interesting,  anyway,  and  I  am  going  immedi 
ately  to  find  out  what  he  has  written  and  save  up  my 
money  to  buy  copies." 

"I  may  save  you  that  expense  in  one  instance,"  and 
Rachel  handed  her  the  book  Stuart  had  sent  her.  Tillie 
looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  an^.  Fred  seized  it  eag 
erly. 

"Oh,  but  you  are  sly!"  she  said, "with  an  accusing 
pout;  "you've  heard  me  puzzling  about  his  work  for 
days  and  never  gave  me  a  hint." 

"I  only  guessed  it  was  his,  he  never  told  me;  but 
this  morning  I  charged  him  with  it,  and  he  did  not  deny. 
I  do  not  think  there  is  any  secret  about  it,  only  down 
at  the  Fort  there  were  several  ladies,  I  believe,  and 
— and  some  of  them  curious — " 

"You're   right,"    laughed   the   Major;    "they   would 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  221 

have  hounded  him  to  death.  Camp  life  is  monotonous 
to  most  women,  and  a  novelist,  especially  a  young, 
handsome  fellow,  would  have  been  a  bonanza  to  them. 
As  it  was,  they  tried  to  spoil  him;  and  look  here!"  he 
said  suddenly,  "see  that  you  say  nothing  of  his  marriage 
to  him,  Babe.  As  he  does  not  mention  it  himself,  it 
may  be  that  the  trouble,  or — well,  just  remember  not 
to  broach  the  subject." 

"Just  as  if  I  would!"  said  his  daughter  after  he  had 
left.  ^  "Papa  never  realizes  that  I  have  at  all  neared 
the  age  of  discretion.  But  doesn't  it  seem  strange  to 
think  of  Mr.  Stuart  being  married?  He  doesn't  look 
a  bit  like  it." 

"  Does  that  state  of  existence  impress  itself  so  indelibly 
on  one's  physical  self?"  laughed  Rachel. 

"It  does — -mostly,"  affirmed  Fred.  "They  get  set 
tled  down  and  prosy,  or  else — well,  dissipated." 

"Good  gracious!  Is  that  the  effect  we  are  supposed 
to  have  on  the  character  of  our  lords  and  masters?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hardy  unbelievingly. 

"Fred's  experience  is  confined  to  barrack  life  and  its 
attendant  evils.  I  don't  think  she  makes  allowance  for 
the  semi-artistic  temper  of  the  Stuart.  He  strikes  me 
as  having  just  enough  of  it  to  keep  his  heart  always 
young,  and  his  affections  too — on  tap,  as  it  were." 

"What  queer  ideas  you  have  about  that  man!"  said 
Fred  suddenly.  ' '  Don't  you  like  him  ? ' ' 

"I  would  not  dare  say  no  with  so  many  opposing 
me." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  Rachel.  She  is  always  attrib 
uting  the  highest  of  virtues  or  the  worst  of  vices  to 
the  most  unexpected  people,"  said  Tillie.  "I  don't 
believe  she  has  any  feeling  in  the  question  at  all,  except 
to  get  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  question  from  every- 


222  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

one  else.  If  she  would  own  up,  I'll  wager  she  likes  him 
as  well  as  the  rest  of  us." 

' '  Do  you,  Rachel  ? ' '  But  her  only  answer  was  a  laugh. 
"If  you  do,  I  can't  see  why  you  disparage  him." 

"I  did  not." 

"Well,  you  said  his  affections  were  always1  on 
tap." 

"That  was  because  I  envy  him  the  exhaustless  youth 
such  a  temperament  gives  one.  Such  people  defy 
time  and  circumstances  in  a  way  we  prosaic  folks 
can  never  do.  It  is  a  gift  imparted  to  an  artist,  to  sup 
ply  the  lack  of  practical  ingredients  that  are  the  prime 
ones  to  the  rest  of  creation." 

"How  you  talk!     Why,  Mr.  Stuart  is  not  an  artist!" 

"Isn't  he?  There  are  people  who  are  artists  though 
they  never  draw  a  line  or  mix  a  color;  but  don't  you 
think  we  are  devoting  a  great  deal  of  time  to  this  pill- 
peddler  of  literary  leanings?" 

"You  are  prejudiced,"  decided  Fred.  "Leanings 
indeed!  He  has  done  more  than  lean  in  that  direction 
— witness  that  book." 

"I  like  to  hear  him  tell  a  story,  if  he  is  in  the 
humor,"  remarked  Tillie,  with  a  memory  of  the  cozy 
autumn  evenings.  "We  used  to  enjoy  that  so  much 
before  we  ever  guessed  he  was  a  story-teller  by  pro 
fession." 

"Well,  you  must  have  had  a  nice  sort  of  a  time  up 
here,"  concluded  Fred;  "a  sort  of  Tom  Moore  episode. 
He  would  do  all  right  for  the  poet-prince — or  was  it  a 
king?  But  you — well,  Rachel,  you  are  not  just  one's 
idea  of  a  Lalla." 

"You  slangy  little  mortal!     Go  and  read  your  book." 

Which  she  did  obediently  and  thoroughly,  to  the 
author's  discomfiture,  as  he  was  besieged  with  questions 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  223 

that  taxed  his  memory  and  ingenuity  pretty  thoroughly 
at  times. 

He  found  himself  on  a  much  better  footing  with 
Rachel  than  during  his  first  visit.  It  may  have  been 
that  her  old  fancy  regarding  his  mission  up  there  was 
disappearing;  the  fancy  itself  had  always  been  a  rather 
intangible  affair — a  fabrication  wrought  by  the  shuttle 
of  a  woman's  instinct.  Or,  having  warned  Genesee 
— she  had  felt  it  was  a  warning — there  might  have 
fallen  from  her  shoulders  some  of  the  responsibility 
she  had  so  gratuitously  assumed.  Whatever  it  was, 
she  was  meeting  him  on  freer  ground,  and  found  the 
association  one  of  pleasure. 

"I  think  Miss  Fred  or  your  enlarged  social  circle  has 
had  a  most  excellent  influence  on  your  temper,"  he 
said  to  her  one  day  after  a  ride  from  camp  together, 
and  a  long,  pleasant  chat.  "You  are  now  more  like  the 
girl  I  used  to  think  you  might  be — the  girl  you  debarred 
me  from  knowing." 

"  But  think  what  an  amount  of  time  you  had  for  work 
in  those  days  that  are  forfeited  now  to  dancing  attend 
ance  on  us  women  folk!" 

"I  do  not  dance.  ' 

"Well,  you  ride,  and  you  walk,  and  you  sing,  and 
tell  stories,  and  manage  at  least  to  waste  lots  of  time 
when  you  should  be  working." 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  impatience  with  anyone 
who  is  not  a  worker,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him.  "I  grow  very 
impatient  myself  often  from  the  same  cause." 

"You  always  seem  to  me  to  be  very  busy,"  he 
answered  half-vexedly ;  "too  busy.  You  take  on  your 
self  responsibilities  in  all  directions  that  do  not  belong 
to  you;  and  you  have  such  a  way  of  doing  as  you  please 


224  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

that  no  one  about  the  place  seems  to  realize  how  much 
of  a  general  manager  you  are  here,  or  how  likely  you 
are  to  overburden  yourself." 

' '  Nonsense ! ' ' 

She  spoke  brusquely,  but  could  not  but  feel  the  kind 
ness  in  the  penetration  that  had  given  her  appreciation 
where  the  others,  through  habit,  had  grown  to  take  her 
accomplishments  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  the  begin 
ning  they  had  taken  them  as  a  joke. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said  finally.  "I  do  not  mean  to  be 
rude,  but  do  you  mind  telling  me  if  work  is  a  necessity 
to  you?" 

"Certainly  not.  I  have  none  of  that  sort  of  pride  to 
contend  with,  I  hope,  and  I  have  a  little  money — not 
much,  but  enough  to  live  on;  so,  you  see,  I  am  provided 
for  in  a  way." 

"Then  why  do  you  always  seem  to  be  skirmishing 
around  for  work?"  he  asked,  in  a  sort  of  impatience. 
"Women  should  be  home-makers,  not — " 

"Not  prospectors  or  adventurers,"  she  finished  up 
amiably.  "But  as  I  have  excellent  health,  average 
strength  and  understanding,  I  feel  they  should  be  put 
to  use  in  some  direction.  I  have  not  found  the  direc 
tion  yet,  and  am  a  prospector  meanwhile;  but  a  con 
tented,  empty  life  is  a  contemptible  thing  to  me.  I 
think  there  is  some  work  intended  for  us  all  in  the 
world;  and,"  she  added,  with  one  of  those  quick 
changes  that  kept  folks  from  taking  Rachel's  most 
serious  meanings  seriously — "and  I  think  it's  playing 
it  pretty  low  down  on  Providence  to  bluff  him  on  an 
empty  hand." 

He  laughed.  "Do  you  expect,  then,  to  live  your  life 
out  here  helping  to  manage  other  people's  ranches  and 
accumulating  that  sort  of  Western  logic  in  extenuation? " 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  225 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  little ;  then  she  said : 

"I  might  do  worse." 

She  said  it  so  deliberately  that  he  could  not  but  feel 
some  special  thing  was  meant,  and  asked  quickly: 

"What?" 

"Well,  I  might  be  given  talents  of  benefit  to  people, 
and  fritter  them  away  for  the  people's  pastime.  The 
people  would  never  know  they  had  lost  anything,  or 
come  so  near  a  great  gain;  but  I,  the  cheat,  would  know 
it.  After  the  lights  were  turned  out  and  the  curtain 
down  on  the  farce,  I  would  realize  that  it  was  too  late 
to  begin  anew,  but  that  the  same  lights  and  the  same 
theater  would  have  served  as  well  for  the  truths  of 
Christ  as  the  pranks  of  Pantaloon — the  choice  lay  only 
in  the  will  of  the  worker." 

Her  eyes  were  turned  away  from  him,  as  if  she  was 
seeking  for  metaphors  in  the  white  stretch  of  the 
snow-fall.  He  reached  over  and  laid  his  hand  on 
hers. 

"Rachel!" 

It  was  the  only  time  he  had  called  her  that,  and  the 
caress  of  the  name  gave  voice  to  the  touch  of  his  fin 
gers. 

"Rachel!  What  is  it  you  are  talking  about?  Look 
around  here!  I  want  to  see  you!  Do  you  mean  that 
you  think  of — of  me  like  that — tell  me? " 

If  Miss  Fred  could  have  seen  them  at  that  moment 
it  would  have  done  her  heart  good,  for  they  really 
looked  rather  lover-like;  each  was  unconscious  of  it, 
though  their  faces  did  not  lack  feeling  She  drew  her 
hand  slowly  away,  and  said,  in  that  halting  yet  per 
sistent  way  in  which  she  spoke  when  very  earnest  yet 
not  very  sure  of  herself: 

"You  think  me   egotistical,    I   suppose,   to   criticise 

15 


226  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

work  that  is  beyond  my  own  capabilities,  but —  it  was 
you  I  meant." 

"Well?" 

His  fingers  closed  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  instead 
of  her  hand.  AH  his  face  was  alight  with  feeling. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  her  stubborness  kept  her 
eyes  from  his;  to  most  women  they  would  not  have 
been  an  aid  to  cool  judgment. 

"Well,  there  isn't  anything  more  to  say,  is  there?" 
she  asked,  smiling  a  little  out  at  the  snow.  "It  was 
the  book  that  did  it — made  me  feel  like  that  about 
you;  that  your  work  is — well,  surface  work — skimmed 
over  for  pastime.  But  here  and  there  are  touches 
that  show  how  much  deeper  and  stronger  the  work  you 
might  produce  if  you  were  not  either  lazy  or  care 
less." 

"You  give  one  heroic  treatment,  and  can  be  merci 
less.  Tire  story  was  written  some  time  ago,  and  writ 
ten  under  circumstances  that — well,  you  see  I  do  not, 
sign  my  name  to  it,  so  I  can't  be  very  proud  of  it." 

"Ah!  that  is  it?  Your  judgment,  I  believe,  is  too 
good  to  be  satisfied  with  it ;  I  shouldn't  waste  breath 
speaking,  if  I  was  not  sure  of  that.  But  you  have 
the  right  to  do  work  you  can  be  proud  of;  and  that  is 
what  you  must  do." 

Rachel's  way  was  such  a  decided  way,  that  people 
generally  accepted  her  "musts"  as  a  matter  of  course, 
Stuart  did  the  same,  though  evidently  unused  to  the 
term;  and  her  cool  practicalities  that  were  so  surely 
noting  his  work,  not  himself,  had  the  effect  of  check 
ing  that  first  impulse  of  his  to  touch  her — to  make 
her  look  at  him.  He  felt  more  than  ever  that  the  girl 
was  strange  and  changeable — not  only  in  herself,  but 
in  her  influence.  He  arose  and  walked  across  the 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  227 

floor  a  couple  of  times,  but  came  back  and  stood  beside 

her. 

"You  think  I  am  not  ambitious  enough;  and  you  are 
right,  I  suppose.  I  have  never  yet  made  up  my  mind 
whether  it  was  worth  my  while  to  write,  or  whether  it 
might  not  be  more  wise  to  spare  the  public." 

"But  you  have  the  desire — you  must  feel  confidence 
at  times." 

"How  do  you  know  or  imagine  so  much  of  what  I 
feel?" 

"I  read  it  in  that  book,"  and  she  nodded  toward 
the  table.  "In  it  you  seem  so  often  just  on  the  point 
of  saying  or  doing,  through  the  people,  things  that 
would  lift  that  piece  of  work  into  a  strong  moral  lesson ; 
but  just  when  you  reach  that  point  you  drop  it 
undeveloped." 

"You  have  read  and  measured  it,  haven't  you?"  and 
he  sat  down  again  beside  her.  "I  never  thought  of — 
of  what  you  mention  in  it.  A  high  moral  lesson,"  he 
repeated;  "but  to  preach  those  a  man  should  feel  him 
self  fit;  I  am  not." 

"I  don't  believe  you!" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  he  demanded  so 
sharply  that  she  smiled;  it  was  so  unlike  him.  But 
the  sharpness  was  evidently  not  irritation,  for  his  face 
had  in  it  more  of  sadness  than  any  other  feeling;  she 
saw  it,  and  did  not  speak. 

After  a  little  he  turned  to  her  with  that  rare  impetu 
osity  that  was  so  expressive. 

"You  are  very  helpful  to  me  in  what  you  have  said; 
I  think  you  are  that  to  everyone — it  seems  so.  Per 
haps  you  are  without  work  of  your  own  in  the  world, 
that  you  may  have  thought  for  others  who  need  help; 
that  is  the  highest  of  duties,  and  it  needs  strong,  good 


228  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

hearts.  But  do  you  understand  that  it  is  as  hard 
sometimes  to  be  thought  too  highly  of  as  to  be 
accused  wrongfully?  It  makes  one  feel  such  a  cheat 
— such  a  cursed  liar!" 

"I  rather  think  we  are  all  cheats,  more  or  less,  in 
that  respect,"  she  answered.  "I  am  quite  sure  the  inner 
workings  of  my  most  sacred  thought  could  not  be  adver 
tised  without  causing  my  exile  from  the  bosom  of  my 
family;  yet  I  refuse  to  think  myself  more  wicked  than 
the  rest  of  humanity." 

"Don't  jest!" 

"Really,  I  am  not  jesting,"  she  answered.  "And  I 
believe  you  are  over-sensitive  as  to  your  own  short 
comings,  whatever  they  happen  to  be.  Because  I  have 
faith  in  your  ability  to  do  strong  work,  don't  think  I 
am  going  to  skirmish  around  for  a  pedestal,  or  think 
I've  found  a  piece  of  perfection  in  human  nature,  because 
they're  not  to  be  found,  my  friend." 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked  her  suddenly. 

She  laughed,  feeling  so  clearly  the  tenor  of  his 
thought. 

"Twenty-two  by  my  birthdays,  but  old  enough  to 
know  that  the  strongest  workers  in  the  world  have  not 
been  always  the  most  immaculate.  What  matter  the 
sort  of  person  one  has  been,  or  the  life  one  has 
lived  if  he  come  out  of  it  with  knowledge  and  the  wish 
to  use  it  well?  You  have  a  certain  power  that  is  yours, 
to  use  for  good  or  bad,  and  from  a  fancy  that  you  should 
not  teach  or  preach,  you  let  it  go  to  waste.  Don't 
magnify  peccadillos!" 

"You  seem  to  take  for  granted  the  fact  that  all  my 
acts  have  been  trifling — that  only  the  promises  are 
worthy,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"I  do  believe  "  she  answered  smiling  brightly  "that 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  229 

you  would  rather  I  thought  you  an  altogether  wicked 
person  than  an  average  trifler.  But  I  will  not — I  do 
not  believe  it  possible  for  you  deliberately  to  do  any 
wicked  thing;  you  have  too  tender  a  heart,  and — 

''You  don't  know  anything  about  it!"  he  repeated 
vehemently.  "What  difference  whether  an  act  is  delib 
erate  or  careless,  so  long  as  the  effect  is  evil?  I  tell 
you  the  greater  part  of  the  suffering  in  the  world  is 
caused  not  by  wicked  intents  and  hard  hearts,  but  by 
the  careless  desire  to  shirk  unpleasant  facts,  and  the 
soft-heartedness  that  will  assuage  momentary  pain  at 
the  price  of  making  a  life-long  cripple,  either  mentally, 
morally,  or  physically.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  man 
whom  we  call  soft-hearted  is  only  a  moral  coward. 
Ah,  don't  help  me  to  think  of  that ;  I  think  of  it  enough- 
enough  ! ' ' 

He  brought  his  clenched  hand  down  on  the  arm  of 
the  chair  with  an  emphasis  that  was  heightened  by  the 
knitted  brow  and  compressed  lips.  He  did  not  look 
at  her.  The  latter  part  of  the  rapid  speech  seemed 
more  to  himself  than  to  her.  At  least  it  admitted  of 
no  answer;  the  manner  as  much  as  the  words  kept  her 
silent. 

"Come!  come!"  he  added,  after  a  little,  as  if  to 
arouse  himself  as  well  as  her.  "You  began  by  giving 
me  some  good  words  of  advice  and  suggestion;  I  must 
not  repay  you  by  dropping  into  the  blues.  For  a  long 
time  I've  been  a  piece  of  drift-wood,  with  nothing  to 
anchor  ambition  to;  but  a  change  is  coming,  I  think, 
and — and  if  it  brings  me  fair  weather,  I  may  have 
something  then  to  work  for;  then  I  may  be  worth  your 
belief  in  me — I  am  not  now.  My  intentions  to  be  so 
are  all  right,  but  they  are  not  always  to  be  trusted. 
I  said,  before,  that  you  had  the  faculty  of  making 


230  STOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

people  speak  the  truth  to  you,  if  they  spoke  at  all, 
and  I  rather  think  1  am  proving  my  words." 

He  arose  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  Since  he 
had  found  so  many  words,  she  had  seemed  to  lose  hers; 
anyway,  she  was  silent. 

"It  can't  be  very  pleasant  for  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
' 'to  be  bored  by  the  affairs  of  every  renegade  to  whom 
you  are  kind,  because  of  some  fancied  good  you  may 
see  in  him;  but  you  are  turning  out  just  the  sort  of 
woman  I  used  to  fancy  you  might  be — and — I  am  grate 
ful  to  you." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  answered  in  the  old  brusque 
way.  To  tell  the  truth,  a  part  of  his  speech  was  scarcely 
heard.  Something  in  the  whole  affair — the  confidence 
and  personal  interest,  and  all — had  taken  her  memory 
back  to  the  days  of  that  cultus  corrie,  when  another  man 
had  shared  with  her  scenes  somewhat  similar  to  this. 
Was  there  a  sort  of  fate  that  had  set  her  apart  for  this 
sort  of  thing?  She  smiled  a  little  grimly  at  the  fancy, 
and  scarcely  heard  him.  He  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile, 
and  it  made  him  check  himself  in  something  he  was 
about  to  say,  and  walk  toward  the  door. 

She  neither  spoke  nor  moved;  her  face  was  still 
toward  the  window.  Turning  to  look  at  her,  his  inde 
cision  disappeared,  and  in  three  steps  he  was  beside 
her. 

"Rachel,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  of  something  else," 
he  said  rapidly,  almost  eagerly,  as  if  anxious  to  have 
it  said  and  done  with;  "I— I  want  to  tell  you  what 
that  anchor  is  I've  been  looking  for,  and  without  which 
I  never  will  be  able  to  do  the  higher  class  of  work,  and — 
and — " 

"Yes?" 

He  had  stopped,  making  a  rather  awkward  pause 


"A  WOMAN  WHO  WAS  LOST."  231 

after  his  eager  beginning.  With  the  one  encouraging 
word,  she  looked  up  at  him  and  waited. 

"It  is  a  woman." 

"Not  an  unusual  anchor  for  mankind,"  she  remarked 
with  a  little  laugh. 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  in  his  eyes;  they 
were  very  serious. 

"I  never  will  be  much  good  to  myself,  or  the  rest  of 
the  world,  until  I  find  her  again,"  he  said,  "though  no 
one's  words  are  likely  to  help  me  more  than  yours.  You 
would  make  one  ambitious  if  he  dared  be  and — " 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  she  said  kindly.  "I  am 
glad  if  it  has  happened  so.  And  this  girl — it  is  someone 
you — love?" 

"I  can't  talk  to  anyone  of  her — yet,"  he  answered, 
avoiding  her  eyes;  "only  I  wanted  you  to  understand 
— it  is  at  least  a  little  step  toward  that  level  where 
you  fancy  I  may  belong.  Don't  speak  of  it  again;  I 
can  hardly  say  what  impelled  me  to  tell  you  now.  Yes, 
it  is  a  woman  I  cared  for,  and  who  was — lost — whom  I 
lost — long  ago." 

A  moment  later  she  was  alone,  and  could  hear  his 
step  in  the  outer  room,  then  on  the  porch.  Fred  called 
after  him,  but  he  made  no  halt — did  not  even  answer, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  that  young  lady  and  Miss 
Margaret. 

The  other  girl  sat  watching  him  until  he  disappeared 
in  the  stables,  and  a  little  later  saw  him  emerge  and  ride 
at  no  slow  gait  out  over  the  trail  toward  camp. 

"It  only  needed  that  finale,"  she  soliloquized,  "to 
complete  the  picture.  "Woman!  woman!  What  a 
disturbing  element  you  are  in  the  universe — man's 
universe!" 

After  this  bit  of  trite  philosophy,  the  smile  developed 


232  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

into  a  noiseless  laugh  that   had   something   of  irony 
in  it. 

"I  rather  think  Talapa's  entrance  was  more  dra 
matic,"  was  one  of  the  reflections  that  kept  her  company ; 
"anyway,  she  was  more  picturesque,  if  less  elegant, 
than  Mrs.  Stuart  is  likely  to  be.  Mrs.  Stuart!  By  the 
way,  I  wonder  if  it  is  Mrs.  Stuart?  Yes,  I  suppose  so — 
yet,  'a  woman  whom  I  cared  for,  and  who  was  lost — • 
long  ago!' — Lost?  lost?" 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  233 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"I'LL    KILL    HIM    THIS    TIME!" 

Rumors  were  beginning  to  drift  into  camp  of  hostile 
intents  of  the  Blackfeet ;  and  a  general  feeling  of  uneasi 
ness  became  apparent  as  no  word  came  from  the  chief 
of  their  scouts,  who  had  not  shown  up  since  locating 
the  troops. 

The  Major's  interest  was  decidedly  alive  in  regard 
to  him,  since  not  a  messenger  entered  camp  from  any 
direction  who  was  not  questioned  on  the  subject.  But 
from  none  of  them  came  any  word  of  Genesee. 

Other  scouts  were  there — good  men,  too,  and  in  the 
southern  country  of  much  value;  but  the  Kootenai 
corner  of  the  State  was  almost  an  unknown  region  to 
them.  They  were  all  right  to  work  under  orders;  but 
in  those  hills,  where  everything  was  in  favor  of  the 
native,  a  man  was  needed  who  knew  every  gully  and 
every  point  of  vantage,  as  well  as  the  probable  hostile. 

While  Major  Dreyer  fretted  and  fumed  over  the 
absentee,  there  was  more  than  one  of  the  men  in  camp 
to  remember  that  their  chief  scout  was  said  to  be  a 
squaw  man;  and  as  most  of  them  shared  his  own 
expressed  idea  of  that  class,  conjectures  were  set  afloat 
as  to  the  probability  of  his  not  coming  back  at  all, 
or  if  it  came  to  a  question  of  righting  with  the  northern 
Indians,  whether  he  might  not  be  found  on  the  other 
side. 

"You  can't  bet  any  money  on  a  squaw  man,"  was 


234  TOLD  IN     THE  HILLS. 

the  decision  of  one  of  the  scouts  from  over  in  Idaho — 
one  who  did  not  happen  to  be  a  squaw  man  himself, 
because  the  wife  of  his  nearest  neighbor  at  home  ob 
jected.  "No,  gentlemen,  they're  a  risky  lot.  This  one 
is  a  good  man;  I  allow  that — a  damned  good  man,  I  may 
say,  and  a  fighter  from  away  back;  but  the  thing  we 
have  to  consider  is  that  up  this  way  he's  with  his  own 
people,  as  you  may  say,  having  taken  a  squaw  wife  and 
been  adopted  into  the  tribe;  an'  I  tell  you,  sirs,  it's  jest 
as  reasonable  that  he  will  go  with  them  as  against  them 
• — I'm  a  tellin'  you!" 

Few  of  these  rumors  were  heard  at  the  ranch.  It  was 
an  understood  thing  among  the  men  that  the  young 
ladies  at  Hardy's  were  to  hear  nothing  of  camp  affairs 
that  was  likely  to  beget  alarm;  but  Stuart  heard  them, 
as  did  the  rest  of  the  men;  and  like  them,  he  tried  to 
question  the  only  one  in  camp  who  shared  suspicion — 
Kalitan.  But  Kalitan  was  unapproachable  in  English, 
and  even  in  Chinook  would  condescend  no  information. 
He  doubtless  had  none  to  give,  but  the  impression  of 
suppressed  knowledge  that  he  managed  to  convey 
made  him  an  object  of  close  attention,  and  any  attempt 
to  leave  camp  would  have  been  hailed  as  proof  positive 
of  many  intangible  suspicions.  He  made  no  such 
attempt.  On  the  contrary,  after  his  arrival  there  from 
the  Gros  Ventres,  he  seemed  blissfully  content  to  live 
all  winter  on  Government  rations  and  do  nothing.  But 
he  was  not  blind  by  any  means  and  understanding 
English,  though  he  would  not  speak  it,  the  chances  were 
that  he  knew  more  of  the  thought  of  the  camp  than  it 
guessed  of  his;  and  his  stubborn  resentment  showed 
itself  when  three  Kootenai  braves  slouched  into  camp 
one  day,  and  Kalitan  was  not  allowed  to  speak  to 
them  save  in  the  presence  of  an  interpreter,  and  when 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  235 

one  offered  in  the  person  of  a  white  scout,  Kalitan 
looked  at  him  with  unutterable  disdain,  and  turning 
his  back,  said  not  a  word. 

The  Major  was  not  at  camp.  He  had  just  left  to 
pay  his  daily  visit  to  Hardy's;  for,  despite  all  persua 
sions,  he  refused  to  live  anywhere  but  with  his  men, 
and  if  Fred  did  not  come  to  see  him  in  the  morning, 
he  was  in  duty  bound  to  ride  over  to  her  quarters  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  officer  in  command  during  his  absence  was  a 
Captain  Holt,  a  man  who  had  no  use  for  an  Indian 
in  any  capacity,  and  whose  only  idea  of  settling  the 
vexed  question  of  their  rights  was  by  total  extermina 
tion  and  grave-room — an  opinion  that  is  expressed  by 
many  a  white  man  who  has  had  to  deal  with  them. 
But  he  was  divided  between  his  impulse  to  send  the 
trio  on  a  double-quick  about  their  business  and  the 
doubt  as  to  what  effect  it  would  have  on  the  tribe  if 
they  were  sent  back  to  it  in  the  sulks.  Ordinarily 
he  would  not  have  given  their  state  of  mind  a  moment's 
consideration ;  but  the  situation  was  not  exactly  ordinary, 
and  he  hesitated. 

After  stowing  away  enought  provender  in  their 
stomachs  to  last  an  ordinary  individual  two  days,  and 
stowing  the  remainder  in  convenient  receptacles  about 
their  draperies,  intercourse  was  resumed  with  their 
white  hosts  by  the  suggestive  Kalitan. 

Just  then  Stuart  and  Rachel  rode  into  camp.  They 
had  taken  to  riding  together  into  camp,  and  out  of 
camp,  and  in  a  good  many  directions  of  late;  and  in 
the  coffee-colored  trio  she  at  once  recognized  the  brave 
of  the  bear-claws  whom  she  had  spoken  with  during 
that  "olallie"  season  in  the  western  hills,  and  who 
she  had  learned  since  was  a  great  friend  of  Genesee's, 


236  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

She  spoke  to  him  at  once — a  great  deal  more  intel 
ligibly  than  her  first  attempt — and  upon  questioning, 
learned  that  she  was  well  remembered.  She  heard 
herself  called  "the  squaw  who  rides"  by  him,  proba 
bly  from  the  fact  that  she  was  the  only  white  woman 
met  by  their  hunters  in  the  hills,  though  she  had  not 
imagined  herself  so  well  known  by  them  as  his  words 
implied. 

He  of  the  bear-claws — their  spokesman — mentioned 
Kalitan,  giving  her  for  the  first  time  an  idea  of  what 
had  occurred.  She  turned  at  once  to  Captain  Holt — 
not  protesting,  but  interested — and  learned  all  she 
wanted  to. 

"Kalitan  does  not  like  your  southern  scouts,  for 
some  reason,"  she  said,  "and  I  rather  think  it  was  his 
dignity  rather  than  his  loyalty  that  would  suffer  from 
having  one  of  them  a  listener.  Let  them  speak  in  my 
presence;  I  can  understand  them,  and  not  arouse 
Kalitan's  pride,  either." 

The  Captain,  nothing  loath,  accepted  her  guidance 
out  of  the  dilemna,  though  it  was  only  by  a  good  deal 
of  flattery  on  her  part  that  Kalitan  could  at  all  forget 
his  anger  enough  to  speak  to  anyone. 

The  conversation  was,  after  all,  commonplace  enough, 
as  it  was  mostly  a  recital  of  his — Kalitan's — glories; 
for  in  the  eyes  of  these  provincials  he  posed  as  a  warrior 
of  travel  and  accumulated  knowledge.  The  impas 
sive  faces  of  his  listeners  gave  no  sign  as  to  whether 
they  took  him  at  his  own  valuation  or  not.  Rachel 
now  and  then  added  a  word,  to  keep  from  having  too 
entirely  the  appearance  of  a  listener,  and  she  asked  about 
Genesee. 

The  answer  gave  her  to  understand  that  weeks  ago — 
five  weeks — Genesee  had  been  in  their  village;  asked 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  237 

for  a  runner  to  go  south  to  the  Fort  with  talking-paper. 
Had  bought  pack-horse  and  provisions,  and  started 
alone  to  the  northeast — may  be  Blackfoot  Agency, 
they  could  not  say;  had  seen  him  no  more.  Kalitan 
made  some  rapid  estimate  of  probabilities  that  found 
voice  in — 

"Blackfoot — one  hundred  and  twenty  miles;  go 
slow — Mowitza  tired ;  long  wau-wau  (talk) ;  come  slow- 
snows  high;  come  soon  now,  may  be." 

That  was  really  the  only  bit  of  information  in  the 
entire  "wau-wau"  that  was  of  interest  to  the  camp — 
information  that  Kalitan  would  have  disdained  to 
satisfy  them  with  willingly;  and  even  to  Rachel,  whom 
he  knew  was  Genesee's  friend,  and  his,  he  did  not  hint 
the  distrust  that  had  grown  among  the  troops  through 
that  suspicious  absence. 

He  would  talk  long  and  boastfully  of  his  own  affairs, 
but  it  was  a  habit  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
stubborn  silence  by  which  he  guarded  the  affairs  of 
others. 

"What  is  the  matter  back  there?"  asked  Rachel, 
as  she  and  Stuart  started  back  to  the  ranch.  "Ill- 
feeling?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  not  much,"  he  answered;  "only  they 
are  growing  careful  of  the  Indians  of  late — afraid  of 
them  imposing  on  good  nature,  I  suppose." 

"A  little  good  nature  in  Captain  Holt  would  do  him 
no  harm  with  the  Indians,"  she  rejoined;  "and  he  should 
know  better  than  to  treat  Kalitan  in  that  suspicious 
way.  Major  Dreyer  would  not  do  it,  I  feel  sure,  and 
Genesee  won't  like  it.' 

"Will  that  matter  much  to  the  company  or  the 
command?'"' 

He  spoke  thus  only  to  arouse  that  combative  spirit 


238  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

of  hers;  but  she  did  not  retort  as  usual— only  said! 
quietly : 

"Yes,  I  think  it  would— they  will  find  no  man  like 

him." 

They  never  again  referred  to  that  conversation  that 
had  been  in  a  way  a  confession  on  his  part — the  question 
of  the  woman  at  least  was  never  renewed,  though  he 
told  her  much  of  vague  plans  that  he  hoped  to  develop, 
"when  the  time  comes." 

Three  days  after  the  visit  of  Bear-claws  and  his 
brethren,  Stuart  and  Rachel  were  again  at  the  camp; 
this  time  accompanying  Miss  Fred,  who  thought  it 
was  a  good-enough  day  to  go  and  see  the  "boys." 

Surely  it  was  a  good-enough  day  for  any  use — clear 
and  fresh  overhead,  white  and  sparkling  underfoot, 
and  just  cold  enough  to  make  them  think  with  desire 
of  the  cheery  wood  fires  in  the  camp  they  were  making 
for.  From  above,  a  certain  exhilaration  was  borne  to 
them  on  the  air,  sifted  through  the  cedars  of  the  guar 
dian  hills;  even  the  horses  seemed  enthused  with  the 
spirit  of  it,  and  joyously  entered  into  a  sort  of  a  go-as- 
you-please  race  that  brought  them  all  laughing  and 
breathless  down  the  length  of  "the  avenue,"  a  strip  of 
beaten  path  about  twenty  feet  wide,  along  which  the 
tents  were  pitched  in  two  rows  facing  each  other — and 
not  very  imposing  looking  rows,  either. 

There  were  greetings  and  calls  right  and  left,  as 
they  went  helter-skelter  down  the  line;  but  there  was 
no  check  of  speed  until  they  stopped,  short,  at  the 
Major's  domicile,  that  was  only  a  little  more  distin 
guished  on  the  outside  than  the  rest,  by  having  the 
colors  whipping  themselves  into  shreds  from  the  flag 
staff  at  the  door. 

It   was   too   cold   for   ceremony;  and  throwing  the 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  239 

bridles  to  an  orderly,  they  made  a  dash  for  the  door- 
Miss  Fred  leading. 

"Engaged,  is  he?"  she  said  good-humoredly  to  the 
man  who  stepped  in  her  path.  "I  don't  care  if  he  is 
married.  I  don't  intend  to  freeze  on  the  place  where 
his  door-step  ought  to  be.  You  tell  him  so." 

The  man  on  duty  touched  his  cap  and  disappeared, 
and  from  the  sound  of  the  Major's  laughter  within,  must 
have  repeated  the  message  verbatim,  and  a  moment 
later  returned. 

" Major  Dreyer  says  you  may  enter;"  and  then,  laugh 
ing  and  shivering,  the  Major's  daughter  seized  Rachel 
with  one  hand,  Stuart  with  the  other,  and  making  a 
quick  charge,  darted  into  the  ruling  presence. 

"Oh,  you  bear!"  she  said,  breaking  from  her  com 
rades  and  into  the  bear's  embrace;  "to  keep  us  out 
there — and  it  so  cold!  And  I  came  over  specially 
for — ' ' 

And  then  she  stopped.  The  glitter  of  the  sun  on 
the  sun  had  made  a  glimmer  of  everything  under  a 
roof,  and  on  her  entrance  she  had  not  noticed  a  figure 
opposite  her  father,  until  a  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  took 
a  step  forward  as  if  to  go. 

"Let  me  know  when  you  want  me,  Major,"  he  said; 
and  the  voice  startled  those  two  muffled  figures  in  the 
background,  for  both,  by  a  common  impulse,  started 
forward — Rachel  throwing  back  the  hood  of  her  jacket 
and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said  heartily,  and 
he  gripped  the  offered  member  with  a  sort  of  fierceness 
as  he  replied: 

"Thank  you,  Miss." 

But  his  eyes  were  not  on  her.  The  man  who  had 
come  with  her-— who  still  held  her  gloves  in  his 


240  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

hand  —  was  the  person  who  seemed  to  draw  all  his 
attention. 

"You  two  are  old  neighbors,  are  you  not?"  remarked 
the  Major.  "Fred,  my  dear,  you  have  met  Mr.  Gen- 
esee,  our  scout  ?  No  ?  Mr.  Genesee,  this  is  my  daughter ; 
and  this,  a  friend  of  ours — Mr.  Stuart." 

An  ugly  devil  seemed  alive  in  Genesee's  eyes,  as  the 
younger  man  came  closer,  and  with  an  intense,  expres 
sive  gesture,  put  out  his  hand 

Then,  with  a  bow  that  might  have  been  an  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  introduction,  and  might  have  been  only 
one  of  adieu  to  the  rest  of  the  group,  the  scout  walked 
to  the  door  without  a  word,  and  Stuart's  hand  dropped 
to  his  side. 

"Come  back  in  an  hour,  Genesee,"  said  the  Major; 
"I  will  think  over  the  trip  to  the  Fort  in  the  mean 
time." 

"I  hear.  Good-morning,  ladies;"  and  then  the  door 
closed  behind  him,  and  the  quartette  could  not  but 
feel  the  situation  awkward. 

"Come  closer  to  the  fire — sit  down,"  said  the  Major 
hospitably,  intent  on  effacing  the  rudeness  of  his 
scout.  "Take  off  your  coat,  Stuart;  you'll  appre 
ciate  it  more  when  outside.  And  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
right  now,  that,  pleased  as  I  am  to  have  you  all  come 
this  morning,  I  intend  to  turn  you  out  in  twenty  min 
utes — that's  all  the  time  I  can  give  to  pleasure  this 
morning." 

"Well,  you  are  very  uncivil,  I  must  say,"  remarked 
Fred.  "But  we  will  find  some  of  the  other  boys  not  so 
unapproachable.  I  guess,"  she  added,  "that  we  have 
to  thank  Mr.  Man-with-the-voice  for  being  sent  to  the 
right-about  in  such  short  order." 

"You  did  not  hear  him  use  it  much,"  rejoined    her 


"This  is  a  friend  of  ours — Mr.  Stuart."     Page  240. 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  241 

father,  and  then  turned  to  the  others,  neither  of  whom 
had  spoken.  "He  is  quite  a  character,  and  of  great 
value  to  us  in  the  Indian  troubles,  but  I  believe  is 
averse  to  meeting  strangers;  anyway,  the  men  down 
at  the  Fort  did  not  take  to  him  much — not  enough  to 
make  him  a  social  success." 

"I  don't  think  he  would  care,"  said  Fred.  "He 
impressed  me  very  much  as  Kalitan  did  when  I  first 
met  him.  Does  living  in  the  woods  make  people  feel 
like  monarchs  of  all  they  survey?  Does  your  neighbor 
ever  have  any  better  manners,  Rachel?" 

"I  have  seen  him  with  better — and  with  worse." 

"Worse?  What  possibilities  there  must  be  in  that 
man!  What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Stuart?" 

"Perhaps  he  lacks  none  of  the  metal  of  a  soldier 
because  he  does  not  happen  to  possess  that  of  a  courtier," 
hazarded  Stuart,  showing  no  sign  that  the  scout's  rude 
ness  had  aroused  the  slightest  feeling  of  resentment; 
and  Rachel  scored  an  opinion  in  his  favor  for  that 
generosity,  for  she,  more  than  either  of  the  others,  had 
noted  the  meeting,  and  Genesee's  entire  disregard  of 
the  Stuart's  feelings. 

Major  Dreyer  quickly  seconded  Stuart's  statement. 

"You  are  right,  sir.  He  may  be  as  sulky  as  Satan — 
and  I  hear  he  is  at  times — but  his  work  makes  amends 
for  it  when  he  gets  where  work  is  needed.  He  got  in 
here  last  night,  dead-beat,  from  a  trip  that  I  don't 
believe  any  other  man  but  an  Indian  could  have  made 
and  get  back  alive.  He  has  his  good  points — and  they 
happen  to  be  points  that  are  in  decided  demand  up  here." 

"I  don't  care  about  his  good  points,  if  we  have  to  be 
turned  out  for  him,"  said  Fred.  "Send  him  word  he 
can  sleep  the  rest  of  the  day,  if  he  is  tired  out;  may  be 
he  would  wake  up  more  agreeable  " 

16 


242  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"And  you  would  not  be  ousted  from  my  attention," 
added  her  father,  pinching  her  ear.  "Are  you  jealous 
of  Squaw -man-with-a-voice  ?  * ' 

"Is  he  that?"  asked  the  girl,  with  a  great  deal  of  con 
tempt  in  her  tone.  "Well,  that  is  enough  to  hear  of 
him.  I  should  think  he  would  avoid  white  people. 
The  specimens  we  have  seen  of  that  class  would  make 
you  ashamed  you  were  human,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Rachel  and  Stuart.  "I  know  papa  says  there  are 
exceptions,  but  papa  is  imaginative.  This  one  looks 
rather  prosperous,  and  several  degrees  cleaner  than 
I've  seen  them,  but — " 

"Don't  say  anything  against  him  until  you  know 
you  have  reason,  Fred,"  suggested  Rachel.  "He  did 
me  a  favor  once,  and  I  can't  allow  people  to  talk 
about  him  on  hearsay.  I  think  he  is  worse  than  few 
and  better  than  many,  and  I  have  known  him  over  a 
year." 

"Mum  is  the  word,"  said  Fred  promptly,  proceeding 
to  gag  herself  with  two  little  fists;  but  the  experiment 
was  a  failure. 

"If  she  takes  him  under  her  wing,  papa,  his  social 
success  is  an  assured  fact,  even  if  he  refuses  to  open  his 
mouth.  May  I  expect  to  be  presented  to  his  interesting 
family  to-morrow,  Rachel?" 

Rachel  only  laughed,  and  asked  the  Major  some  ques 
tions  about  the  reports  from  the  northeast ;  the  attitude 
of  the  Blackfeet,  and  the  snow-fall  in  the  mountains. 

"The  Blackfeet  are  all  right  now,"  he  replied,  "and 
the  snows  in  the  hills  to  the  east  are  very  heavy — that 
was  what  caused  our  scout's  delay.  But  south  of  us  I 
hear  they  are  not  nearly  so  bad,  for  a  wonder,  and  am 
glad  to  hear  it,  as  I  myself  may  need  to  make  a  trip 
down  to  Fort  Owens." 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  243 

"Why,  papa,"  broke  in  his  commanding  officer,  "you 
are  not  going  to  turn  scout  or  runner,  are  you,  and  leave 
me  behind  ?  I  won 't  stay ! ' ' 

"You  will  obey  orders,  as  a  soldier  should,"  answered 
her  father.  If  I  go  instead  of  sending,  it  will  be  because 
it  is  necessary,  and  you  will  have  to  bow  to  necessity, 
and  wait  until  I  can  get  back." 

"And  we've  got  to  thank  Mr.  Squaw-man  for  that, 
too!"  burst  out  Fred  wrathfully.  "You  never  thought 
of  going  until  he  came;  oh,  I  know  it—I  hate  him!" 

"He  would  be  heart-broken  if  he  knew  it,"  observed 
her  father  dryly.  "By  the  way,  Miss  Rachel,  do  you 
know  if  there  is  room  in  the  ranch  stables  for  another 
horse  ? ' ' 

"  They  can  make  room,  if  it  is  necessary.  Why  ? " 
"Genesee's  mare  is  used  up  even  worse  than  her 
master  by  the  long,  hard  journey  he  has  made.  Our 
stock  that  is  in  good  condition  can  stand  our  accommo 
dations  all  right,  but  that  fellow  seemed  miserable  to 
think  the  poor  beast  had  not  quarters  equal  to  his  own. 
He  is  such  a  queer  fellow  about  asking  a  favor  that  I 
thought—" 

"And  the  thought  does  you  credit,"  said  the  girl  with 
a  suspicious  moisture  in  her  eyes.  "Poor,  brave 
Mowitza!  I  could  not  sleep  very  soundly  myself  if  I 
knew  she  was  not  cared  for,  and  I  know  just  how  he 
feels.  Don't  say  anything  about  it  to  him,  but  I  will 
have  my  cousin  come  over  and  get  her,  before  even 
ing." 

"You  are  a  trump,  Miss  Rachel!"  said  the  Major 
emphatically;  "and  if  you  can  arrange  it,  I  know  you 
will  lift  a  load  off  Genesee's  mind.  I'll  wager  he  is 
out  there  in  the  shed  with  her  at  this  moment,  instead 
of  beside  a  comfortable  fire;  and  this  camp  owes  him 


244  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

too  much,  if  it  only  knew  it,  to  keep  from  him  any 
comforts  for  either  himself  or  that  plucky  bit  of  horse 
flesh." 

Then  the  trio,  under  guard  of  the  Lieutenant,  paid 
some  other  calls  along  the  avenue — were  offered  more 
dinners,  if  they  would  remain,  than  they  could  have 
eaten  in  a  week;  but  in  all  their  visits  they  saw  nothing 
more  of  the  scout.  Rachel  spoke  of  his  return  to  one 
of  the  men,  and  received  the  answer  that  they  reckoned 
he  was  putting  in  most  of  his  time  out  in  the  shed 
tying  the  blankets  off  his  bunk  around  that  mare  of 
his. 

"Poor  Mowitza!  she  was  so  beautiful,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  memory  of  the  silken  coat  and  wise  eyes.  "I 
should  not  like  to  see  her  looking  badly." 

"Do  you  know/'  said  Stuart  to  her,  "that  when  I 
heard  you  speak  of  Mowitza  and  her  beauty  and  brav 
ery,  I  never  imagined  you  meant  a  four-footed  ani 
mal?" 

"What,  then?" 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  nymph  of  the  dusky  tribe 
— a  woman." 

"Naturally! "  was  the  one  ironical  and  impatient  word 
he  received  as  answer,  and  scarcely  noted. 

He  was  talking  with  the  others  on  multitudinous  sub 
jects,  laughing,  and  trying  to  appear  interested  in  jests 
that  he  scarcely  heard,  and  all  the  while  the  hand  he  had 
offered  to  Genesee  clenched  and  opened  nervously  in  his 
seal  glove. 

Rachel  watched  him  closely,  for  her  instincts  had  antic 
ipated  something  unusual  from  that  meeting;  the  actual 
had  altered  all  her  preconceived  fancies.  More  strong 
than  ever  was  her  conviction  that  those  two  were  not 
strangers;  but  from  Stuart's  face  or  manner  she  could 


"I'LL  KILL  HIM  THIS  TIME."  245 

learn  nothing.  He  was  a  much  better  actor  than 
Genesee. 

They  did  not  see  any  more  of  him,  yet  he  saw  them; 
for  from  the  shed,  off  several  rods  from  the  avenue, 
the  trail  to  Hardy's  ranch  was  in  plain  sight  half  its 
length.  And  the  party,  augmented  by  Lieutenant 
Murray,  galloped  past  in  all  ignorance  of  moody  eyes 
watching  them  from  the  side  of  a  blanketed 
horse. 

Out  a  half-mile,  two  of  the  riders  halted  a  moment, 
while  the  others  dashed  on.  The  horses  of  those  two 
moved  close — close  together.  The  arms  of  the  man 
reached  over  to  the  woman,  who  leaned  toward  him. 
At  that  distance  it  looked  like  an  embrace,  though  he 
was  really  but  tying  a  loose  scarf,  and  then  they  moved 
apart  and  went  on  over  the  snow  after  their  comrades. 
A  brutal  oath  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  man  she  had 
said  was  worse  than  few. 

"If  it  is— I'll  kill  him  this  time!  By  God!— I'll  kill 
him!" 


246  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AFTER  TEN   YEARS. 

Major  Dreyer  left  the  next  day,  with  a  scout  and 
small  detachment,  with  the  idea  of  making  the  jour 
ney  to  Fort  Owens  and  back  in  two  weeks,  as  matters 
were  to  be  discussed  requiring  prompt  action  and  per 
sonal  influence. 

Jack  Genesee  was  left  behind — an  independent,  unen- 
listed  adjunct  to  the  camp,  and  holding  a  more  anomal 
ous  position  there  than  Major  Dreyer  dreamed  of;  for 
none  of  the  suspicious  current  of  the  scout  ever  pene 
trated  to  his  tent — the  only  one  in  the  company  who 
was  ignorant  of  them. 

"Captain  Holt  commands,  Genesee,"  he  had  said 
before  taking  leave;  "but  on  you  I  depend  chiefly  in 
negotiations  with  the  reds,  should  there  be  any  before 
I  get  back,  for  I  believe  you  would  rather  save  lives  on 
both  sides  than  win  a  victory  through  extermination 
of  the  hostiles.  We  need  more  men  with  those  opin 
ions;  so,  remember,  I  trust  you." 

The  words  had  been  uttered  in  the  presence  of  others, 
and  strengthened  the  suspicions  of  the  camp  that 
Genesee  had  been  playing  some  crooked  game.  None 
knew  the  reason  for  that  hastily  decided  trip  of  the 
Major's,  though  they  all  agreed  that  that  "damned  skunk 
of  a  squaw  man"  was  posted.  Prophecies  were  rife  to 
the  effect  that  more  than  likely  he  was  playing  into 
the  hands  of  the  hostiles  by  sending  away  the  Major 
and  as  many  men  as  possible  on  some  wild-goose 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  247 

chase;  and  the  decision  arrived  at  was  that  observa 
tion  of  his  movements  was  a  matter  of  policy,  and 
readiness  to  meet  an  attack  from  the  hills  a  probable 
necessity. 

He  saw  it — had  seen  it  from  the  day  of  his  arrival — 
and  he  kept  pretty  much  out  of  the  way  of  all  except 
Kalitan;  for  in  watching  Genesee  they  found  they 
would  have  to  include  his  runner,  who  was  never  will 
ingly  far  away. 

During  the  first  few  days  their  watching  was  an  easy 
matter,  for  the  suspected  individual  appeared  well  con 
tent  to  hug  the  camp,  only  making  daily  visits  to  Hardy's 
stable,  generally  in  the  evening;  but  to  enter  the  house 
was  something  he  avoided. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Hardy's  invitation;  "I 
reckon  I'm  more  at  home  with  the  horses  than  with 
your  new  company.  I'll  drop  in  sometime  after  the 
Kootenai  valley  is  clear  of  uniforms." 

"My  wife  told  me  to  ask  you,"  said  Hardy;  "and 
when  you  feel  like  coming,  you'll  find  the  door  open." 

"Thank  you,  Hardy;  but  I  reckon  not — not  for  awhile 
yet." 

"I'd  like  you  to  get  acquainted  with  Stuart,"  added 
the  unsuspicious  ranchman.  "He  is  a  splendid  fel 
low,  and  has  become  interested  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try." 

"Oh,  he  has?" 

"Yes,"  and  Hardy  settled  himself,  Mexican  fashion, 
to  a  seat  on  his  heels.  "You  see  he's  a  writer,  a  nov 
elist,  and  I  guess  he's  going  to  write  up  this  territory. 
Anyway,  this  is  the  second  trip  he  has  made. 
You  could  give  him  more  points  than  any  man  I 
know." 

"Yes— I  might." 


248  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Rachel  has  given  him  all  the  knowledge  she  has 
about  the  country — the  Indians,  and  all  that — but  she 
owns  that  all  she  learned  she  got  from  you;  so,  if  you 
had  a  mind  to  be  more  sociable,  Genesee — " 

The  other  arose  to  his  feet. 

"Obliged  to  you,  Hardy,"  he  said;  and  only  the  addi 
tion  of  the  name  saved  it  from  curtness.  "Some  day, 
perhaps,  when  things  are  slack;  I  have  no  time  now." 

"Well,  he  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  rushed  to  death 
with  work,"  soliloquized  Hardy,  who  was  abruptly  left 
alone.  "He  used  to  seem  like  such  an  all-round  good 
fellow,  but  he's  getting  surlier  than  the  devil.  May 
be  Til  lie  was  right  to  hope  he  wouldn't  accept  the 
invitation.  Hello,  Stuart!  Where  are  you  bound 
for?" 

"Nowhere  in  particular.  I  thought  that  Indian, 
Kalitan,  was  over  here." 

"No;  Jack  Genesee  came  over  himself  this  morning. 
That  mare  of  his  is  coming  up  in  great  shape,  and  you'd 
better  believe  he's  proud  over  it.  I  reckon  he  saw  you 
coming  that  he  took  himself  away  in  such  a  hurry.  He's 
a  queer  one." 

"I  should  judge  so.     Then  Kalitan  won't  be  over?' 

"Well,  he's  likely  to  be  before  night.     Want  him?" 

"Yes.  If  you  see  him,  will  you  send  him  to  the 
house?" 

Hardy  promised ;  and  Kalitan  presented  himself,  with 
the  usual  interrogation : 

"Rashell  Hardy?" 

But  she,  the  head  of  the  house  in  his  eyes,  was  in  the 
dark  about  his  visit,  and  was  not  enlightened  much 
when  Stuart  entered,  stating  that  it  was  he  who  had 
wanted  Kalitan. 

That  personage  was  at  once  deaf  and  dumb.     Only 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  249 

by  Rachel  saying,  "He  is  my  friend;  will  you  not 
listen?"  did  he  unbend  at  all;  and  the  girl  left  them 
on  the  porch  alone,  and  a  little  later  Stuart  went  upstairs, 
where  she  heard  him  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
She  had  heard  a  good  deal  of  that  since  that  day  the 
three  had  called  upon  the  Major,  and  a  change  had  come 
over  the  spirit  of  their  social  world ;  for  where  Stuart  had 
been  the  gayest,  they  could  never  depend  on  him  now. 
Even  Rachel  found  their  old  pleasant  companionship 
ended  suddenly,  and  she  felt,  despite  his  silence  he  was 
unhappy. 

"Well,  when  he  finds  his  tongue  he  will  tell  me 
what's  the  matter,"  she  decided,  and  so  dismissed  that 
question. 

She  rode  to  camp  alone  if  it  was  needful,  and  some 
times  caught  a  glimpse  of  Genesee  if  he  did  not  happen 
to  see  her  first ,  but  he  no  longer  came  forward  to  speak, 
as  the  rest  did — only,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  his  hat 
and  a  step  aside  into  some  tent,  and  she  knew  she 
was  avoided.  A  conventional  young  lady  of  ortho 
dox  tendencies  would  have  held  her  head  a  little 
higher  next  time  they  met,  and  not  have  seen  him 
at  all;  but  this  one  was  woefully  deficient  in  those 
self-respecting  bulwarks;  so,  the  next  time  she  hap 
pened  to  be  at  the  end  of  the  avenue,  she  turned 
her  steed  directly  across  his  path,  and  called  a 
halt. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Rachel." 

"Klahowya,  tillikum"  she  answered,  bringing  him 
back  to  a  remembrance  of  his  Chinook.  "Jack  Gen 
esee,  do  you  intend  ever  to  come  to  see  us — I  mean 
to  walk  in  like  your  old  self,  instead  of  looking  through 
the  window  at  night  ? ' ' 

"Looking—" 


250  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Don't  lie,"  she  said  coolly,  "for  I  saw  you,  though 
no  one  else  did.  Now  tell  me  what's  wrong,  Why 
won't  .you  come  in  the  house?" 

"Society  is  more  select  in  the  Kootenai  hills  than 
it  was  a  year  ago;"  he  answered  with  a  sort  of  defiance. 
"Do  you  reckon  there  is  any  woman  in  the  house  who 
would  speak  to  me  if  she  could  get  out  of  it— anyone 
except  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  count." 

"I  had  an  'invite'  this  morning,"  he  added  grimly— 
"not  because  they  wanted  me,  but  because  your  new 
friend  over  there  wanted  someone  to  give  him  points 
about  the  country;  so  I've  got  him  to  thank  for  being 
wanted  at  all.  Now  don't  look  like  that— or  think 
I'm  kicking.  It's  a  square  enough  deal  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned,  and  it  stands  to  reason  a  man  of  my 
stamp  hasn't  many  people  pining  for  him  in  a  respect 
able  house.  For  the  matter  of  that,  it  won't  do  you 
any  good  to  be  seen  talking  to  me  this  long.  I'm 
going." 

"All  right;  so  am  I.     You  can  go  along  " 

"With  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  reckon  not." 

"Don't  be  so  stubborn.  If  you  didn't  feel  like 
coming,  you  would  not  have  been  at  that  window  last 
night." 

His  face  flushed  at  this  thrust  which  he  could  not 
parry. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  won't  go  there  again." 
"No;  come  inside  next  time.     Come,  ride  half  way 
to  the  ranch,  and  tell  me  about  that  trip  of  yours  to 
the   Blackfeet.     Major   Dreyer  gave   you  great   praise 
for  your  work  there." 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  251 

"He  should  have  praised  you;"  and  her  own  color 
deepened  at  the  significance  of  his  words. 

"I  met  Kalitan  on  his  way  to  the  ranch,  as  I  came," 
she  said  in  the  most  irrelevant  way. 

He  looked  at  her  very  sharply,  but  didn't  speak. 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  escort  me  home,  or  must  I 
go  alone?" 

"It  is  daylight;  you  know  every  foot  of  the  way, 
and  you  don't  need  me,"  he  said,  summing  up  the  case 
briefly.  "When  you  do,  let  me  know." 

"And  you  won't  come?"  she  added  good-naturedly. 
"All  right.  Klakowya.'" 

She  moved  out  of  his  way,  touched  Betty  with  the 
whip,  and  started  homeward.  She  rather  expected  to 
meet  Kalitan  again,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  him  on  the 
road;  arriving  at  the  house,  she  found  that  youth 
ensconced  among  the  pillows  of  the  largest  settee 
with  the  air  of  a  king  on  a  throne,  and  watching  with  long, 
unblinking  stares  Miss  Fred,  who  was  stumbling  over 
the  stitches  of  some  crochet -work  for  the  adornment  of 
Miss  Margaret. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come!"  she  breathed  gratefully. 
"He  has  me  so  nervous  I  can't  count  six;  and  Mrs. 
Hardy  is  taking  a  nap,  and  Aunty  Luce  has  locked 
herself  upstairs,  and  I  never  was  stared  so  out  of  coun 
tenance  in  my  life." 

"I  rather  think  that's  a  phase  of  Indian  courtship," 
Rachel  comforted  her  by  saying;  "so  you  have  won 
a  new  admirer.  What  is  it  Kalitan?" 

He  signified  that  his  business  was  with  the  "Man- 
who-laughs,"  the  term  by  which  he  designated  Stuart. 

"Mr.  Stuart  left  the  house  just  after  you  did,"  said 
Fred;  "I  thought,  perhaps,  to  catch  you." 

"No,  he  didn't  go  my  way.     Well,  you  look  comfort- 


252  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

able,  Kalitan;  and  if  you  had  the  addition  of  another 
crazy-patch  cushion  for  your  left  elbow  you  might  stand 
a  little  longer  wait — think  so?" 

Kalitan  thought  he  could;  and  there  he  remained 
until  Stuart  arrived,  flushed  and  rather  breathless 
from  his  ride  from  somewhere. 

"I  was  out  on  the  road,  but  did  not  see  you,  "  said 
Rachel,  on  his  entrance. 

"This  is  likely  enough,"  he  answered.  "I  didn't 
want  you  to — or  anyone  else.  I'm  not  good  company 
of  late.  I  was  trying  to  ride  away  from  myself." 
Then  he  saw  Kalitan,  propped  among  the  cushions. 
"Well,"  he  said  sharply;  "what  have  you  brought 
me?" 

Kalitan  answered  by  no  word,  but  thrust  his  hand 
inside  his  hunting-shirt  and  brougnt  forth  an  envel 
ope,  which  he  gave  into  the  eager  hands  reaching 
for  it. 

Stuart  gave  it  one  quick  glance,  turning  it  in  his  hand 
to  examine  both  sides,  and  then  dropped  it  in  his  pocket 
and  sat  down  by  the  window  Rachel  could  see  it 
was  a  thick,  well-filled  envelope,  and  that  the  shape 
was  the  same  used  by  Stuart  himself,  very  large  and 
perfectly  square — a  style  difficult  to  duplicate  in  the 
Kootenai  hills. 

"You  can  go  now,  if  you  choose,  Kalitan,"  she  said, 
fearing  his  ease  would  induce  him  to  stay  all  night, 
and  filled  with  a  late  alarm  at  the  idea  of  Tillie  getting 
her  eyes  on  the  peaceful  "hostile"  and  her  gorgeous 
cushions;  and  without  any  further  notice  of  Stuart, 
Kalitan  took  his  leave. 

When  Rachel  re-entered  the  room,  a  moment  later, 
a  letter  was  crisping  into  black  curls  in  the  fire-place, 
and  the  man  sat  watching  it  moodily. 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  253 

All  that  evening  there  was  scarcely  question  or 
answer  to  be  had  from  Stuart.  He  sat  by  the  fire,  with 
Miss  Margaret  in  his  arms — her  usual  place  of  an  even 
ing;  and  through  the  story-telling  and  jollity  he  sat 
silent,  looking,  Jim  said,  as  if  he  was  "workin'  han£ 
at  thinkinV 

"To-morrow  night  you  must  tell  us  a  story,"  said 
Miss  Fred,  turning  to  him.     "You  have  escaped  now 
for — oh,  ever  so  many  nights ." 
"I  am  afraid  my  stock  is  about  exhausted." 

"Out  of  the  question!  The  flimsiest  of  excuses," 
she  decided.  "Just  imagine  a  new  one,  and  tell  it  us 
instead  of  writing  it;  or  tell  us  the  one  you  are  writing 
at  now." 

"Well,  we  will  see  when  to-morrow  comes;"  and 
with  that  vague  proposal  Miss  Fred  had  to  be  con 
tent. 

When  the  morrow  came  Stuart  looked  as  if  there 
had  been  no  night  for  him — at  least  no  sleep;  and  Rachel, 
or  even  MacDougall  himself,  would  not  think  of  calling 
him  Prince  Charlie,  as  of  old. 

She  was  no  longer  so  curious  about  him  and  that  other 
man  who  was  antagonistic  to  him.  She  had  been  fear 
ful,  but  whatever  knowledge  they  had  of  each  other 
she  had  decided  would  not  mean  harm;  the  quiet  days 
that  had  passed  were  a  sort  of  guarantee  of  that. 

Yet  they  seemed  to  have  nerved  Stuart  up  to  some 
purpose,  for  the  morning  after  the  burning  of  the  let 
ter  he  appeared  suddenly  at  the  door  of  Genesee's 
shack,  or  the  one  Major  Dreyer  had  turned  over  to  him 
during  his  own  absence. 

From  the  inside  Kalitan  appeared,  as  if  by  enchant 
ment,  at  the  sound  of  a  hand  on  the  latch.  Stuart, 
with  a  gesture,  motioned  him  aside,  and  evidently 


254  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

to  Kalitan's  own  surprise,  he  found  himself  stepping 
out  while  the  stranger  stepped  in.  For  perhaps  a 
minute  the  Indian  stood  still,  listening,  and  then  no 
sounds  of  hostilities  coming  to  his  ears,  an  expressive 
gutteral  testified  to  his  final  acquiescence,  and  he  moved 
away.  His  hesitation  showed  that  Rachel  had  not  been 
the  only  one  to  note  the  bearing  of  those  two  toward 
each  other. 

Had   he   listened   a   minute   longer,   he   might   have 
.ieard  the  peace  within  broken  by  the  voices  that    at 
t  suppressed  and  intense;  rose  with  growing  earnest 


ness 


The  serious  tones  of  Stuart  sounded  through  the  thin 

oard  walls  in  expostulation,   and  again  as  if  urging 

some  point  that  was  granted  little  patience;  for  above 

the  voice  of  Genesee  broke  in,  all  the  mellowness  gone 
from  it,  killed  by  the  brutal  harshness,  the  contemptu 
ous  derision,  with  which  he  answered  some  plea  or 
proposition. 

"Oh,  you  come  to  me  now,  do  you?"  he  said  walk 
mg  back  and  forth  across  the  room  like  some  'animal 
fighting  to  keep  back  rage  with  motion,  if  one  can 
imagine  an  animal  trying  to  put  restraint  on  itself- 
and  at  every  turn  his  smoldering,  sullen  gaze  flashed 
/er  the  still  figure  inside  the  door,  and  its  manner 

h  a  certain  calm  steadfastness  of  purpose,  not  to  be 
upset  by  anger,  seemed  to  irritate  him  all  the  more 
>  you  come  this  time  to  lay  out  proposals  to  me 
eh?     And  think,  after  all  these  years,  that  I'm  to  be 

w^iedTMiVer  t0  What  y°U  Want  bv  a  few  soft  words? 
Wei,  111  see  you  damned  first;  so  you  can  strike  the 
back  trail  as  soon  as  you've  a  mind  to." 

"I  shan't  go  back,"  said  Stuart  deliberately,  "until 
I  get  what  I  came  for." 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS,  255 

The  other  answered  with  a  short,  mirthless  laugh. 

"Then  you're  located  till  doomsday,"  he  retorted, 
"and  doomsday  in  the  afternoon;  though  I  reckon  that 
won't  be  much  punishment,  considering  the  attrac 
tions  you  manage  to  find  up  here,  and  the  advantages 
you  carry  with  you — a  handsome  face,  a  gentleman's 
manners  and  an  honest  name.  Why,  you  are  begging 
on  a  full  hand,  Mister;  and  what  are  you  begging  to? 
A  man  that's  been  about  as  good  as  dead  for  years — 
a  man  without  any  claim  to  a  name,  or  to  recognition 
by  decent  people — an  outlaw  from  civilization." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  Jack,"  broke  in  Stuart,  who 
was  watching  in  a  sort  of  misery  the  harsh  self-con 
demnation  in  the  restless  face  and  eyes  of  Genesee. 
"Don't  be  so  bitter  as  that  on  yourself.  You  are  unjust 
— don't  I  know?" 

**The  hell  you  say!"  was  the  withering  response  to 
this  appeal,  as  if  with  the  aid  of  profanity  to  destroy 
the  implied  compliment  to  himself.  "Your  opinion 
may  go  for  a  big  pile  among  your  fine  friends,  but  it 
doesn't  amount  to  much  right  here.  And  you'd  better 
beat  a  retreat,  sir.  The  reputation  of  the  highly  re 
spected  Charles  Stuart,  the  talented  writer,  the  honor 
able  gentleman,  might  get  some  dirty  marks  across 
it  if  folks  knew  he  paid  strictly  private  visits 
to  Genesee  Jack,  a  renegade  squaw  man;  and  more 
still  if  they  guessed  that  he  came  for  a  favor — that's 
what  you  called  it  when  you  struck  the  shack,  I  believe. 
A  favor!  It  has  taken  you  a  good  while  to  find  that 
name  for  it." 

"No,  it  has  not,  Jack,"  and  the  younger  man's  earnest 
ness  of  purpose  seemed  to  rise  superior  to  the 
taunts  and  sarcasm  of  the  other.  "It  was  so  from  the 
first,  when  I  realized — after  I  knew — I  didn't  seem  to 


256  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

have  thoughts  for  anything  else.  It  was  a  sort  of  jus 
tice,  I  suppose,  that  made  me  want  them  when  I  had 
put  it  out  of  my  power  to  reach  them.  You  don't 
seem  to  know  what  it  means,  Jack,  but  I — I  am  home 
sick  for  them;  I  have  been  for  years,  and  now  that 
things  have  changed  so  for  me,  I — Jack,  for  God's 
sake,  have  some  feeling!  and  realize  that  other  men 
can  have!" 

Jack  turned  on  him  like  a  flash. 

"You — you  say  that  to  me!"  he  muttered  fiercely. 

"You,  who  took  no  count  of  anybody's  feelings  but 
your  own,  and  thought  God  Almighty  had  put  the 
best  things  on  this  earth  for  you  to  use  and  destroy! 
Killing  lives  as  sure  as  if  they'd  never  drawn  another 
breath,  and  forgetting  all  about  it  with  the  next  pretty 
face  you  saw!  If  that  is  what  having  a  stock  of  feeling 
leads  a  man  to,  I  reckon  we're  as  well  off  without  any 
such  extras." 

Stuart  had  sat  down  on  a  camp-stool,  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands,  and  there  was  a  long  silence  after  Gen- 
esee's  bitter  words,  as  he  stood  looking  at  the  bent 
head  with  an  inexplicable  look  in  his  stormy  eyes. 
Then  his  visitor  arose. 

"Jack,"  he  said  with  the  same  patience — not  a  word 
of  retort  had  come  from  him — "Jack,  I've  been  pun 
ished  every  day  since.  I  have  tried  to  forget  it — to 
kill  all  memory  by  every  indulgence  and  distraction 
in  my  reach — pursued  forgetfulness  so  eagerly  that 
people  have  thought  me  still  chasing  pleasure.  I 
turned  to  work,  and  worked  hard,  but  the  practice 
brought  to  my  knowledge  so  many  lives  made  wretched 
as — as — well,  I  could  not  stand  it.  The  heart-sickness 
it  brought  me  almost  drove  me  melancholy  mad  The 
only  bright  thing  in  life  was — the  children — " 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  257 

An  oath  broke  from  Genesee's  lips. 

"And  then,"  continued  Stuart,  without  any  notice 
save  a  quick  closing  of  the  eyes  as  if  from  a  blow,  "and 
then  they  died — both  of  them.  That  was  justice, 
too,  no  doubt,  for  they  stayed  just  long  enough  to  make 
themselves  a  necessity  to  me — a  solace — and  to  make 
me  want  what  I  have  lost.  I  am  telling  you  this  be 
cause  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  have  had  things  to 
try  me  since  I  saw  you  last,  and  that  I've  come  through 
them  with  the  conviction  that  there  is  to  be  no  con 
tent  in  life  to  me  until  I  make  what  amends  I  can 
for  the  folly  of  the  boy  you  knew.  The  thought  has 
become  a  monomania  with  me.  I  hunted  for  months 
for  you,  and  never  found  a  trace.  Then  I  wrote— 
there." 

"You  did!" 

"Yes,  I  did — say  what  you  please,  do  what  you 
please.  It  was  my  only  hope,  and  I  took  it.  I  told 
her  I  was  hunting  for  you — and  my  purpose.  In  return 
I  got  only  this,"  and  he  handed  toward  Genesee  a 
sheet  of  paper  with  one  line  written  across  it.  "You 
see — your  address,  nothing  more.  But,  Jack,  can't 
you  see  it  would  not  have  been  sent  if  she  had  not 
wished — 

"That's  enough!"  broke  in  the  other.  "I  reckon 
I've  given  you  all  the  time  I  have  to  spare  this  morn 
ing,  Mister.  You're  likely  to  strike  better  luck  in 
some  different  direction  than  talking  sentiment  and 
the  state  of  your  feelings  to  me.  I've  been  acquainted 
with  them  before — pretty  much — and  don't  recollect 
that  the  effect  was  healthy." 

"Jack,  you  will  do  what  I  ask?" 

"Not  this  morning,  sonny,"  answered  the  other, 
still  with  that  altogether  aggressive  taunt  in  his 


258  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

tone.  "I  would  go  back  to  the  ranch  if  I  was  you,  and 
by  this  time  to-morrow  some  of  them  may  make  you 
forget  the  favor  you  want  this  morning.  So  long!" 

And  with  this  suggestion  to  his  guest  to  vacate,  he 
turned  his  back,  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  began  fill 
ing  a  pipe. 

"All  right;  I'll  go,  and  in  spite  of  your  stubborn 
ness,  with  a  lighter  heart  than  I  carried  here,  for  I've 
made  you  understand  that  I  want  to  make  amends, 
and  that  I  have  not  been  all  a  liar;  that  I  want  to  win 
back  the  old  faith  you  all  had  in  me;  and,  Jack,  if  my 
head  has  gone  wrong,  something  in  my  heart  forbade 
me  to  have  content,  and  that  has  been  my  only  hope 
for  myself.  For  I  have  a  hope,  and  a  determination, 
Jack,  and  as  for  anyone  helping  me  to  forget — well, 
you  are  wrong  there;  one  woman  might  do  it — for  a 
while — I  acknowledge  that,  but  I  am  safe  in  knowing 
she  would  rather  help  me  to  remember." 

Genesee  wheeled  about  quickly. 

"Have  you  dared — 

"No,  I  have  not  told  her,  if  that  is  what  you  mean, 
why — why  should  I?" 

His  denial  weakened  a  little  as  he  remembered  how 
closely  his  impulse  had  led  him  to  it,  and  how  strong, 
though  reasonless,  that  impulse  had  been. 

The  stem  of  the  pipe  snapped  in  Genesee's  fingers 
as  he  arose,  pushing  the  camp-stool  aside  with  his  foot, 
as  if  clearing  space  for  action. 

"Since  you  own  up  that  there's  someone  about 
here  that  you — you've  taken  a  fancy  to — damn  you! — 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  right  now  that  you've  got  to 
stop  that!  You're  no  more  fit  than  I  am  to  speak  to 
her,  or  ask  for  a  kind  word  from  her,  and  I  give  you 
a  pointer  that  if  you  try  playing  fast  and  loose  with 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS.  259 

her,  there'll  be  a  committee  of  one  to  straighten  out 
the  case,  and  do  it  more  completely  than  that  man  did 
who  was  a  fool  ten  years  ago.  Now,  hearken  to  that 
— will  you?" 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  strode 
out  of  the  shack,  slamming  the  door  after  him,  and 
leaving  his  visitor  in  possession. 

"I've  got  to  show  him,  by  staying  right  in  these 
hills,  that  I  am  in  earnest,"  Stuart  decided,  taking 
the  seat  his  host  had  kicked  aside,  and  stretching  his 
feet  out  to  the  fire.  "No  use  in  arguing  or  pleading 
with  him — there  never  was.  But  give  him  his  own 
lead,  and  he  will  come  around  to  the  right  point  of 
view,  though  he  may  curse  me  up  hill  and  down  dale 
while  he  is  doing  it;  a  queer,  queer  fellow — God  bless 
him!  And  how  furious  he  was  about  that  girl!  Those 
two  are  a  sort  of  David  and  Jonathan  in  their  defense 
of  each  other,  and  yet  never  exchange  words  if  they 
can  help  it — that's  queer,  too — it  would  be  hard  telling 
which  of  them  is  the  more  so.  Little  need  to  warn 
any  man  away  from  her,  however;  she  is  capable  of 
taking  very  good  care  of  herself." 

There  was  certainly  more  than  one  woman  at  the 
ranch;  but  to  hear  the  speech  of  those  two  men,  one 
would  have  doubted  it;  for  neither  had  thought  it 
necessary  even  to  mention  her  name. 


260  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    TELLING    OF    A    STORY. 

"But  you  promised!  Yes,  you  did,  Mr.  Stuart— 
didn't  he,  Mrs.  Hardy?  There,  that  settles  it;  so  you 
see  this  is  your  evening  to  tell  a  story." 

The  protracted  twilight,  with  its  cool  grays  and 
purples,  had  finally  faded  away  over  the  snow,  long 
after  the  stars  took  up  their  watch  for  the  night.  The 
air  was  so  still  and  so  chill  that  the  bugle-call  at  sunset 
had  sounded  clearly  along  the  little  valley  from  camp, 
and  Fred  thought  the  nearness  of  sound  made  a  house 
seem  so  much  more  home-like.  After  the  bugle  notes 
and  the  long  northern  twilight,  had  come  the  grouping 
of  the  young  folks  about  the  fire,  and  Fred's  reminder 
that  this  was  to  be  a  "story"  night. 

"But,"  declared  Stuart,  "I  can  think  of  none,  except 
a  very  wonderful  one  of  an  old  lady  who  lived  in  a  shoe, 
and  another  of  a  house  marvelously  constructed  by  a 
gentleman  called  Jack — " 

Here  a  clamor  arose  from  the  rebels  in  the  audience, 
and  from  Fred  the  proposal  that  he  should  read  or  tell 
them  of  what  he  was  working  on  at  present,  and  gaining 
at  last  his  consent. 

"But  I  must  bring  down  some  notes  in  manuscript," 
he  added,  "as  part  of  it  is  only  mapped  out,  and  my 
memory  is  treacherous." 

'I  will  go  and  get  them,"  offered  Fred.  "No,  don't 
you  go!  I'm  afraid  to  let  you  out  of  the  room, 
Jest  you  may  remember  some  late  business  at  camp 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  261 

and  take  French  leave.  Is  the  manuscript  on  the  table 
in  your  room?  I'll  bring  it." 

And  scarcely  waiting  either  assent  or  remonstrance, 
she  ran  up  the  stairs,  returning  immediately  with 
hands  full  of  loose  sheets  and  two  rolls  of  manu 
script. 

"I  confiscated  all  there  was  in  reach,"  she  laughed. 
"Here  they  are;  you  pay  no  money,  and  you  take  your 
choice." 

She  was  such  a  petite,  pretty  little  creature,  her 
witchy  face  alight  with  the  confidence  of  pleasure  to 
come ;  and  looking  down  at  her,  he  remarked : 

"You  look  so  much  a  spirit  of  inspiration,  Miss  Fred, 
that  you  had  better  not  make  such  a  sweeping  offer, 
lest  I  might  be  tempted  to  choose  you." 

"  And  have  a  civil  war  on  your  hands,"  warned  Rachel, 
"with  the  whole  camp  in  rebellion." 

"Not  much;  they  don't  value  me  so  highly,"  confessed 
Fred.  "They  would  all  be  willing  to  give  me  away." 

"A  willingness  only  seconded  by  your  own."  This 
from  the  gallant  Lieutenant  on  the  settee.  "My  child, 

this  is  not  leap-year,  and  in  the  absence  of  your  parent 
I » 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  as  Captain  Holt  commands  in 
papa's  absence,  I  don't  see  what  extra  responsibility 
rests  on  your  shoulders.  Now,  Mr.  Stuart,  all  quiet 
along  the  Kootenai;  go  ahead." 

"Not  an  easy  thing  to  do,"  he  answered  ruefully, 
trying  to  sort  the  jumbled  lot  of  papers  she  had  brought 
him,  and  beginning  by  laying  the  rolls  of  manuscript  on 
the  table  back  of  him,  as  if  disposing  of  them.  "You 
have  seized  on  several  things  that  we  could  not  possibly 
wade  through  in  one  evening,  but  here  is  the  sketch  I 
spoke  of.  It  is  of  camp-life,  by  the  way,  and  so  open 


262  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

to  criticism  from  you  two  veterans.  It  was  suggested 
by  a  story  I  heard  told  at  the  Fort." 

Just  then  a  wild  screech  of  terror  sounded  from  the 
yard,  and  then  an  equally  wild  scramble  across  the 
porch.  Everyone  jumped  to  their  feet,  but  Rachel 
reached  the  door  first,  just  as  Aunty  Luce,  almost  gray 
from  terror,  floundered  in. 

"They's  come!"  she  panted,  in  a  sort  of  paralysis  of 
fright  and  triumph  of  prophecy.  "I  done  tole  all  you 
chillen!  Injuns!  right  here — I  seed  'em!" 

Hardy  reached  for  his  gun,  the  others  doing  the 
same;  but  the  girl  at  the  door  had  darted  out  into  the 
darkness. 

"Rachel!"  screamed  Tillie,  but  no  Rachel  answered. 
Even  Hardy's  call  was  not  heeded;  and  he  followed 
her  with  something  like  an  oath  on  his  lips,  and  Stuart 
at  his  elbow. 

Outside,  it  seemed  very  dark  after  the  brightness 
within,  and  they  stopped  on  the  porch  an  instant  to 
guide  themselves  by  sound,  if  there  was  any  move 
ment. 

There  was — the  least  ominous  of  sounds — a  laugh. 
The  warlike  attitude  of  all  relaxed  somewhat,  for  it 
was  so  high  and  clear  that  it  reached  even  those 
within  doors;  and  then,  outlined  against  the  back 
ground  of  snow,  Stuart  and  Hardy  could  see  two  forms 
near  the  gate — a  tall  and  a  short  one,  and  the  shorter 
one  was  holding  to  the  sleeve  of  the  other  and  laugh 
ing. 

"You  and  Aunty  Luce  are  a  fine  pair  of  soldiers," 
she  was  saying ;  ' '  both  beat  a  retreat  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  each  other.  And  you  can't  leave  after  upsetting 
everyone  like  this;  you  must  come  in  the  house  and 
reassure  them.  Come  on ! " 


'/  done  tole  all  you  Mien!  Injuns!  right  here-I  seed  'em." 
Page  262. 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  263 

Some  remonstrance  was  heard,  and  at  the  sound  of 
the  voice  Hardy  stepped  out. 

"Hello,  Genesee!"  he  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  relief 
in  his  manner;  "were  you  the  scarecrow?  Come 
in  to  the  light,  till  we  make  sure  we're  not  to  be 
scalped." 

After  a  few  words  with  the  girl  that  the 
others  could  not  hear,  he  walked  beside  her  to  the 
porch. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry,  Hardy,"  he  said  as  they  met. 
"I  was  a  little  shaky  about  Mowitza  to-day,  and  reck 
oned  I'd  better  make  an  extra  trip  over;  but  I  didn't 
count  on  kicking  up  a  racket  like  this— didn't  even 
spot  the  woman  till  she  screeched  and  run." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Hardy  reassuringly.     "I'm 
glad  you  came,  whether  intentionally  or  by  accident. 
You  know  I  told  you  the  other  day — " 
"Yes— I  know." 

Rachel  and  Stuart  had  entered  the  house  ahead  of 
them,  and  all  had  dropped  back  into  their  chosen 
points  of  vantage  for  the  evening  when  assurance  was 
given  that  the  Indians  belonged  to  Aunty's  imagina 
tion  ;  but  for  those  short  seconds  of  indecision  Tillie  had 
realized,  as  never  before,  that  they  were  really  within 
the  lines  of  the  Indian  country. 

Aunty  Luce  settled  herself  sulkily  in  the  corner, 
a  grotesque  figure,  with  an  injured  air,  eyeing  Genesee 
with  a  suspicion  not  a  whit  allayed  when  she  recog 
nized  the  man  who  had  brought  the  first  customs  of 
war  to  them— taking  nocturnal  possession  of  the  best 
room. 

"No  need  tell  me  he's  a  friend  o'  you  all!"  she 
grunted.  "Nice  sort  o'  friend  you's  comin'  to,  I  say 
—lives  with  Injuns;  reckon  I  heard— umph!" 


264  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

This  was  an  aside  to  Tillie,  who  was  trying  to  keep 
her  quiet,  and  not  succeeding  very  well,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  the  others  within  hearing,  especially 
Fred. 

Genesee  had  stopped  in  the  outer  room,  speaking 
with  Hardy;  and,  standing  together  on  the  hearth,  in 
the  light  of  the  fire,  it  occurred  to  the  group  in  the 
other  room  what  a  fine  pair  they  made — each  a  piece 
of  physical  perfection  in  his  way 

"A  pair  of  typical  frontiersmen,"  said  Murray,  and 
Miss  Fred  was  pleased  to  agree,  and  add  some  praise 
on  her  own  account. 

"Why,  that  man  Genesee  is  really  handsome,"  she 
whispered;  "he  isn't  scowling  like  sin,  as  he  was  when 
I  saw  him  before.  Ask  him  in  here,  Mrs.  Tillie;  I  like 
to  look  at  him." 

Mrs.  Tillie  had  already  made  a  movement  toward 
him.  Perhaps  the  steady,  questioning  gaze  of  Rachel 
had  impelled  her  to  follow  what  was  really  her  desire, 
only — why  need  the  man  be  so  flagrantly  improper? 
Tillie  had  a  great  deal  of  charity  for  black  sheep,  but 
she  believed  in  their  having  a  corral  to  themselves,  and 
not  allowing  them  the  chance  of  smutching  the  spotless 
flocks  that  have  had  good  luck  and  escaped  the  mire. 
She  was  a  good  little  woman,  a  warm-hearted  one; 
and  despite  her  cool  condemnation  of  his  wickedness 
when  he  was  absent,  she  always  found  herself,  in  his 
presence,  forgetting  all  but  their  comradeship  of  that 
autumn,  and  greeting  him  with  the  cordiality  that 
belonged  to  it. 

"I  shall  pinch  myself  for  this  in  the  morning,"  she 
prophesied,  even  while  she  held  out  her  hand  and 
reminded  him  that  he  had  been  a  long  time  deciding 
about  making  them  a  visit. 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  265 

Her  greeting  was  much  warmer  than  her  farewell 
had  been  the  morning  he  left — possibly  because  of 
the  relief  in  finding  it  was  not  a  "hostile"  at  their 
gate.  And  he  seemed  more  at  ease,  less  as  if  he  need 
to  put  himself  on  the  defensive — an  attitude  that  had 
grown  habitual  to  him,  as  it  does  to  many  who  live 
against  the  rulings  of  the  world. 

She  walked  ahead  of  him  into  the  other  room,  thus 
giving  him  no  chance  to  object  had  he  wanted  to; 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  followed  her,  and 
noticed,  without  seeming  to  look  at  any  of  them,  that 
Rachel  stood  back  of  Stuart's  chair,  and  that  Stuart 
was  looking  at  him  intently,  as  if  for  recognition.  On 
the  other  side,  he  saw  the  Lieutenant  quietly  lay  his 
hand  on  Miss  Fred's  wrist  that  was  in  shadow,  just 
as  she  arose  impulsively  to  offer  her  hand  to  the  man 
whom  she  found  was  handsome  when  he  had  the  aid 
of  a  razor.  A  beard  of  several  weeks'  growth  had 
covered  his  face  at  their  first  meeting;  now  there  was 
only  a  heavy  mustache  left.  But  she  heeded  that 
silent  pressure  of  the  wrist  more  than  she  would  a 
spoken  word,  and  instead  of  the  proffered  hand  there 
was  a  little  constrained  smile  of  recognition,  and  a 
hope  given  that  Aunty  Luce  had  not  upset  his  nerves 
with  her  war-cries. 

He  saw  it  all  the  moment  he  was  inside  the  door — 
the  refined  face  of  Stuart,  with  the  graciousness  of 
manner  so  evidently  acceptable  to  all,  the  sheets  of 
manuscript  still  in  his  fingers,  looking  as  he  stood 
there  like  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  cheery  circle;  and 
just  outside  that  circle,  though  inside  the  door,  he — 
Genesee — stood  alone,  the  fact  sharply  accented  by 
Miss  Fred's  significant  movement;  and  with  the  remem 
brance  of  the  fact  came  the  quick,  ever-ready  spirit 


266  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

of  bravado,  and  his  head  was  held  a  trifle  higher  as  he 
smiled  down  at  her  in  apparent  unconcern. 

"If  it  is  going  to  make  Aunty  Luce  feel  more  com 
fortable  to  have  company,  I'm  ready  to  own  up  that 
my  hair  raised  the  hat  off  my  head  at  first  sight  of  her 
— isn't  quite  settled  into  place  yet;"  and  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  the  mass  of  thick,  dark  hair.  "How's 
that,  Aunty?" 

"Umph!"  she  grunted,  crouching  closer  to  the  wall, 
and  watching  him  distrustfully  from  the  extreme  corner 
of  her  eye. 

"Have  you  ever  been  scared  so  badly  you  couldn't 
yell,  Aunty?"  he  asked,  with  a  bland  disregard  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  just  then  in  danger  of  roasting  herself 
on  the  hearth  for  the  purpose  of  evading  him.  "No? 
That's  the  way  you  fixed  me  a  little  while  back,  sure 
enough.  I  was  scared  too  badly  to  run,  or  they  never 
would  have  caught  me." 

The  only  intelligible  answer  heard  from  her  was: 
"Go  'long,  you!" 

He  did  not  "go  'long."  On  the  contrary,  he  wheeled 
about  in  Tillie's  chair,  and  settled  himself  as  if  that 
corner  was  especially  attractive,  and  he  intended 
spending  the  evening  in  it— a  suggestion  that  was  a 
decided  surprise  to  all,  even  to  Rachel,  remembering 
his  late  conservatism. 

Stuart  was  the  only  one  who  realized  that  it  was  per 
haps  a  method  of  proving  by  practical  demonstration 
the  truth  of  his  statement  that  he  was  a  Pariah  among 
the  class  who  received  the  more  refined  character  with 
every  welcome.  It  was  a  queer  thing  for  a  man  to 
court  slights,  but  once  inside  the  door,  his  total  uncon 
cern  of  that  which  had  been  a  galling  mortification  to 
him  was  a  pretty  fair  proof  of  Stuart's  theory.  He 


<PHE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  267 

talked  Indian  wars  to  Hardy,  and  Indian  love-songs  to 
Hardy's  wife.  He  coolly  turned  his  attention  to  Lieu 
tenant  Murray,  with  whom  his  acquaintance  was  the 
slightest,  and  from  the  Lieutenant  to  Miss  Fred,  who 
was  amused  and  interested  in  what  was,  to  her,  a  new 
phase  of  a  "squaw  man;"  and  her  delight  was  none 
the  less  keen  because  of  the  ineffectual  attempts  in 
any  way  to  suppress  this  very  irregular  specimen,  whose 
easy  familiarity  was  as  silencing  as  his  gruff  curtness 
had  been  the  day  they  met  him  first. 

Beyond  an  occasional  remark,  his  notice  was  in  no 
way  directed  to  Rachel — in  fact,  he  seemed  to  avoid 
looking  at  her  He  was  much  more  interested  in  the 
other  two  ladies,  who  by  degrees  dropped  into  a  cordi 
ality  on  a  par  with  that  of  Aunty  Luce ;  and  he  promptly 
took  advantage  of  it  by  inviting  Miss  Fred  to  go  riding 
with  him  in  the  morning. 

The  man's  impudence  and  really  handsome  face  gave 
Fred  a  wicked  desire  to  accept,  and  horrify  the  Lieu 
tenant  and  Tillie;  but  one  glance  at  that  little  matron 
told  her  it  would  not  do. 

"I  have  an  engagement  to  ride  to-morrow,"  she  said 
rather  hurriedly,  ' '  else — ' ' 

"Else  I  should  be  your  cavalier,"  he  laughed.  "Ah, 
well,  there  are  more  days  coming.  I  can  wait." 

A  dead  silence  followed,  in  which  Rachel  caught 
the  glance  Genesee  turned  on  Stuart — a  smile  so  mirth 
less  and  with  so  much  of  bitter  irony  in  it  that  it  told 
her  plainly  as  words  that  the  farce  they  had  sat  through 
was  understood  by  those  two  men,  if  no  others; 
and,  puzzled  and  eager  to  break  the  awkward 
silence,  she  tried  to  end  it  by  stepping  into  the 
breach. 

"You  have  totally  forgotten  the  story  you  were  to 


268  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

tell  us,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sheets  of  manuscript 
in  Stuart's  hand;  "if  we  are  to  have  it  to-night,  why 
not  begin?" 

"Certainly;  the  story,  by  all  means,"  echoed  Fred. 
"We  had  it  scared  out  of  our  heads,  I  guess,  but  our 
nerves  are  equal  to  it  now.  Are  you  fond  of  stories, 
Mr. — Mr.  Genesee?" 

"Uncommonly." 

"Well,  Mr-  Stuart  was  about  to  read  us  one  just  as 
you  came  in:  one  he  wrote  since  he  came  up  in  these 
wilds — at  the  Fort,  didn't  you  say,  Mr.  Stuart?  You 
know,"  she  added,  turning  again  to  Genesee — "you 
know  Mr.  Stuart  is  a  writer — a  romancer." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  slowly,  looking  at  the  subject  of 
their  discourse  as  if  examining  something  rare  and 
curious;  "I  should  reckon — he — might  be." 

The  contempt  in  the  tone  sent  the  hot  blood  to  Stuart's 
face,  his  eyes  glittering  as  ominously  as  Genesee 's  own 
would  in  anger.  An  instant  their  gaze  met  in  chal 
lenge  and  retort,  and  then  the  sheets  of  paper  were  laid 
deliberately  aside. 

"I  believe,  after  all,  I  will  read  you  something  else," 
he  said,  reaching  for  one  of  the  rolls  of  manuscript  on 
the  table;  "that  is,  with  your  permission.  It  is  not 
a  finished  story,  only  the  prologue.  I  wrote  it  in  the 
South,  and  thought  I  might  find  material  for  the  com 
pletion  of  it  up  here;  perhaps  I  may." 

"Let    us    have    that,    by    all    means,"    urged    Tillie. 

"What  do  you  call  it?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  a  title,  as  the  story  was  scarcely 
written  with  the  idea  of  publication.  The  theme, 
however,  which  is  pretty  fairly  expressed  in  the  quota 
tion  at  the  beginning,  may  suggest  a  title.  I  will  leave 
that  to  my  audience." 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  26S 

"And  we  will  all  put  on  our  thinking-caps  and 
study  up  a  title  while  you  tell  the  story,  and  when  it 
is  ended,  see  which  has  the  best  one  to  offer.  It  will 
be  a  new  sort  of  game  with  which  to  test  our  imagina 
tions.  Go  on.  What  is  the  quotation,  to  begin 
with?" 

To  the  surprise  of  the  listeners,  he  read  that  old 
command  from  Deuteronomy,  written  of  brother  to 
brother : 

"Thou  shalt  not  see  thy  brother's  ox  or  his  sheep  go  astray; 
thou  shalt  in  any  case  bring  them  again  unto  thy  brother. 

"And  with  all  lost  things  of  thy  brother's,  which  he  hath  lost 
and  thou  hast  found,  shalt  thou  do  likewise. 

' '  In  any  case  thou  shalt  deliver  him  the  pledge  again  when  the 
sun  goeth  down." 

Stuart  ceased  after  those  lines,  and  looked  for 
comment.  He  saw  enough  in  the  man's  face  oppo 
site  him. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  said  Rachel.  "Never  mind  about  the 
suggestions  in  that  heading — it  is  full  of  them;  give  us 
the  story." 

"It  is  only  the  prologue  to  a  story,"  he  reminded 
her;  and  with  no  further  comment  began  the  manu 
script. 

Its  opening  was  that  saddest  of  all  things  to  the 
living — a  death-bed — and  that  most  binding  of  all 
vows — a  promise  given  to  the  dying. 

There  was  drawn  the  picture  of  a  fragile,  fair  little 
lady,  holding  in  her  chilling  fingers  the  destiny  of  the 
lives  she  was  about  to  leave  behind — young  lives- 
one  a  sobbing,  wondering  girl  of  ten,  and  two  boys; 
the  older  perhaps  eighteen,  an  uncouth,  strong-faced 
youth,  who  clasped  hands  with  another  boy  several 
years  younger,  but  so  fair  that  few  would  think  them 
brothers,  and  only  the  more  youthful  would  ever  have 


270  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

been   credited  as  the  child   of  the  little  woman  who 
looked  so  like  a  white  lily. 

The  other  was  the  elder  son — an  Esau,  however, 
who  was  favorite  with  neither  father  nor  mother;  with 
no  one,  in  fact,  who  had  ever  known  the  sunny  face  and 
nature  of  the  more  youthful — an  impulsive,  loving 
disposition  that  only  shone  the  brighter  by  contrast 
with  the  darker-faced,  undemonstrative  one  whom  even 
his  mother  never  understood. 

And  the  shadow  of  that  misunderstanding  was  with 
them  even  at  the  death-bed,  where  the  Jacob  sobbed 
out  his  grief  in  passionate  protests  against  the  power 
that  would  rob  him,  and  the  Esau  stood  like  a  statue 
to  receive  her  commands.  Back  of  them  was  the  father, 
smothering  his  own  grief  and  consoling  his  favorite, 
when  he  could,  and  the  one  witness  to  the  seal  that  was 
set  on  the  three  young  lives. 

Her  words  were  not  many — she  was  so  weak — -but 
she  motioned  to  the  girl  beside  the  bed.  "I  leave  her 
to  you,"  she  said,  looking  at  them  both,  but  the  eyes, 
true  to  the  feeling  back  of  them,  wandered  to  the 
fairer  face  and  rested  there.  "The  old  place  will  belong 
to  you  two  ere  many  years — your  father  will  perhaps 
come  after  me;"  and  she  glanced  lovingly  toward  the 
man  whom  all  the  world  but  herself  had  found  cold 
and  hard  in  nature.  "I  promised  long  ago— when  her 
mother  died — that  she  should  always  have  a  home,  and 
now  I  have  to  leave  the  trust  to  you,  my  sons." 

"We  will  keep  it,"  said  the  steady  voice  of  Esau, 
as  he  sat  like  an  automaton  watching  her  slowly  drift 
ing  from  them;  while  Jacob,  on  his  knees,  with  his 
arms  about  her,  was  murmuring  tenderly,  as  to  a  child, 
that  all  should  be  as  she  wished — her  trust  was  to  be 
theirs  always. 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  271 

'  And  if  either  of  you  should  fail  or  forget,  the  other 
must  take  the  care  on  his  own  shoulders.  Promise  me 
that  too,  because — " 

The  words  died  away  in  a  whisper,  but  her  eyes 
turned  toward  the  Esau.  He  knew  too  bitterly  what 
it  meant.  Though  only  a  boy,  he  was  a  wild  one- 
people  said  a  bad  one.  His  father  had  pronounced 
him  the  only  one  of  their  name  who  was  not  a  gentle 
man.  He  gambled  and  he  drank;  his  home  seemed 
the  stables,  his  companions,  fast  horses  and  their  fast 
masters;  and  in  the  eyes  of  his  mother  he  read,  as 
never  before,  the  effect  that  life  had  produced.  His 
own  mother  did  not  dare  trust  the  black  sheep  of 
the  family,  even  though  he  promised  at  her  death 
bed. 

A  wild,  half-murderous  hate  arose  in  him  at  the 
knowledge — a  hate  against  his  elegant,  correctly  man 
nered  father,  whose  cold  condemnation  had  long  ago 
barred  him  out  from  his  mother's  sympathy,  until  even 
at  her  death-bed  he  felt  himself  a  stranger — his  little 
mother — and  he  had  worshiped  her  as  the  faithful  do 
their  saints,  and  like  them,  afar  off. 

But  even  the  hate  for  his  father  was  driven  back  at 
the  sight  of  the  wistful  face,  and  the  look  that  comes 
to  eyes  but  once. 

"We  promise— I  promise  that,  so  help  me  God!" 
he  said  earnestly,  and  then  bent  forward  for  the  first 
time,  his  voice  breaking  as  he  spoke.  "Mother! 
mother!  say  just  once  that  you  trust — that  you  believe 
in  me!" 

Her  gaze  was  still  on  his  face;  it  was  growing  difficult 
to  move  the  eyes  at  will,  and  the  very  intensity  of  his 
own  feelings  may  have  held  her  there.  Her  eyes 
widened  ever  so  little,  as  if  at  some  revelation  born 


272  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

to   her  by   that   magnetism,   and   then — ''My  boy,   I 
trust — " 

The  words  again  died  in  a  whisper;  and  raising  his 
head  with  a  long  breath  of  relief,  he  saw  his  father 
drop  on  his  knees  by  the  younger  son.  Their  arms 
were  about  each  other  and  about  her.  A  few  broken, 
disjointed  whispers;  a  last  smile  upward,  beyond  them, 
a  soft,  sighing  little  breath,  after  which  there  was  no 
other,  and  then  the  voice  of  the  boy,  irrepressible  in 
his  grief,  as  his  love,  broke  forth  in  passionate  despair, 
and  was  soothed  by  his  father,  who  led  him  sobbing 
and  rebellious  from  the  bedside — both  in  their  sorrow 
forgetting  that  third  member  of  the  family,  who  sat 
so  stoically  through  it  all,  until  the  little  girl,  their 
joint  trust,  half -blind  with  her  own  tears  saw 
him  there  so  still  and  as  pathetically  alone  as 
the  chilling  clay  beside  him.  Trying  to  say  some 
comforting  words,  she  spoke  to  him,  but  received 
no  answer.  She  had  always  been  rather  afraid 
of  this  black  sheep — he  was  so  morose  about  the 
house,  and  made  no  one  love  him  except  the 
horses;  but  the  scene  just  past  drew  her  to  him  for 
once  without  dread. 

"Brother,"  she  whispered,  calling  him  by  the  name 
his  mother  had  left  her;  "dear  brother,  don't  you  sit 
there  like  that;"  and  a  vague  terror  came  to  her  as  he 
made  no  sign.  "You — you  frighten  me.'! 

She  slipped  her  hand  about  his  neck  with  a  child's 
caressing  sympathy,  and  then  a  wild  scream  brought 
the  people  hurrying  into  the  room. 

"He  is  dead!"  she  cried,  as  she  dropped  beside  him; 
"sitting  there  cold  as  stone,  and  we  thought  he  didn't 
care!  And  he  is  dead — dead!" 

But  he  was  not  dead — the  physician  soon  assured 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  273 

them  of  that.  It  was  only  a  cataleptic  fit.  The  emo 
tion  that  had  melted  the  one  brother  to  tears  had  frozen 
the  other  into  the  closest  semblance  to  stone  that  life 
can  reach,  and  still  be  life. 

The  silence   was  thrilling  as   Stuart's   voice   ceased, 
and  he  stooped  for  the  other  pages  laid  by  his  chair. 

A  feeling  that  the  story  on  paper  could  never  con 
vey  was  brought  to  every  listener  by  the  something 
in  his  voice  that  was  not  tears,  but  suggested 
the  emotion  back  of  tears.  They  had  always 
acknowledged  the  magnetism  of  the  man,  but  felt 
that  he  was  excelling  himself  in  this  instance.  Tillie 
and  Fred  were  silently  crying.  Rachel  was  staring 
very  steadily  ahead  of  her,  too  steadily  to  notice 
that  the  hand  laid  on  Genesee's  revolver  at  the  com 
mencement  of  the  story  had  gradually  relaxed  and 
dropped  listless' beside  him.  All  the  strength  in  his 
body  seemed  to  creep  into  his  eyes  as  he  watched  Stuart, 
trusting  as  much  to  his  eyes  as  his  ears  for  the 
complete  comprehension  of  the  object  in  or  back 
of  that  story.  In  the  short  pause  the  author,  with 
one  sweeping  glance,  read  his  advantage — that  he 
was  holding  in  the  bonds  of  sympathy  this  man  whom 
he  could  never  conquer  through  an  impersonal  influ 
ence.  The  knowledge  was  a  ten-fold  inspiration — 
the  point  to  be  gained  was  so  great  to  him;  and  with 
his  voice  thrilling  them  all  with  its  intensity,  he  read 
on  and  on. 

The  story?  Its  finish  was  the  beginning  of  this 
one;  but  it  was  told  with  a  spirit  that  can  not  be  trans 
mitted  by  ink  and  paper,  for  the  teller  depended  lit 
tle  on  his  written  copy.  He  knew  it  by  heart — knew 
all  the  tenderness  of  a  love-story  in  it  that  was  care 
less  ot  the  future  as  the  butterflies  that  coquette  on  a 
is 


274  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

summer's  day,  passing  and  repassing  with  a  mere  touch 
of  wings,  a  challenge  to  a  kiss,  and  then  darting  hither 
and  yon  in  the  chase  that  grows  laughing  and 
eager,  until  each  flash  of  white  wings  in  the  sun  bears 
them  high  above  the  heads  of  their  comrades,  as  the 
divine  passion  raises  all  its  votaries  above  the  com 
monplace.  Close  and  closer  they  are  drawn  by  the 
spirit  that  lifts  them  into  a  new  life;  high  and  higher, 
until  against  the  blue  sky  there  is  a  final  flash  of  white 
wings.  It  is  the  wedding  by  a  kiss,  and  the  coquet  - 
tings  are  over — the  sky  closes  in.  They  are  a  world 
of  their  own. 

Such  a  love  story  of  summer  was  told  by  him  in 
the  allegory  of  the  butterflies;  but  the  young  heart 
throbbing  through  it  was  that  of  the  woman-child  who 
had  wept  while  the  two  brothers  had  clasped  hands 
and  accepted  her  as  the  trust  of  the  dying;  and  her 
joyous  teacher  of  love  had  been  the  fair-haired,  fine- 
faced  boy  whose  grief  had  been  so  great  and  whose 
promises  so  fervent.  It  is  a  very  old  story,  but  an  ever- 
pathetic  one — that  tragedy  of  life;  and  likewise  this 
one,  without  thought  of  sin,  with  only  a  fatal  fondness 
on  her  part,  a  fatal  desire  for  being  loved  on  his,  and  a 
season's  farewell  to  be  uttered,  of  which  they  could 
speak  no  word — the  emotions  that  have  led  to  more 
than  one  tragedy  of  soul.  And  one  of  the  butterflies 
in  this  one  flitted  for  many  days  through  the  flowers 
of  her  garden,  shy,  yet  happy,  whispering  over  and 
over,  "His  wife,  his  wife!"  while  traveling  southward, 
the  other  felt  a  passion  of  remorse  in  his  heart,  and 
resolved  on  multitudinous  plans  for  the  following  of  a 
perfection  of  life  in  the  future. 

All  this  he  told — too  delicately  to  give  offense,  yet 
too  unsparingly  not  to  show  that  the  evil  wrought  in  a 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  275 

moment  of  idle  pastime,  of  joyous  carelessness,  is  as 
fatal  in  its  results  as  the  most  deliberate  act  of  pre-con- 
ceived  wickedness. 

And  back  of  the  lives  and  loves  of  those  two,  witli 
their  emotional  impulses  and  joyous  union  of  untutored 
hearts,  there  arose,  unloved  and  seemingly  unloving, 
the  quiet,  watchful  figure  of  the  Esau. 

Looking  at  his  life  from  a  distance,  and  perhaps 
through  eyes  of  remorse,  the  writer  had  idealized  that 
one  character,  while  he  had  only  photographed  the 
others;  had  studied  out  the  deeds  back  of  every  decided 
action,  and  discovered,  or  thought  he  had,  that  it  was 
the  lack  of  sympathy  in  his  home-life  had  made  a  sort 
of  human  porcupine  of  him,  and  none  had  guessed  that, 
back  of  the  keen  darts,  there  beat  a  pulse  hungry  for 
words  such  as  he  begged  from  his  mother  at  the  last— 
and  receiving,  was  ready  to  sacrifice  every  hope  of  his, 
present  or  future,  that  he  might  prove  himself  worthy 
of  the  trust  she  had  granted  him,  though  so  late. 

Something  in  the  final  ignoring  of  self  and  the  tak 
ing  on  his  own  shoulders  the  responsibilities  of  those 
two  whom  his  mother  had  loved — something  in  all 
that,  made  him  appear  a  character  of  heroic  propor 
tions,  viewed  from  Stuart's  point  of  view.  He  walked 
through  those  pages  as  a  live  thing,  the  feeling  in  the 
author's  voice  testifying  to  his  own  earnestness 
in  the  portrayal — an  earnestness  that  seemed  to  gain 
strength  as  he  went  along,  and  held  his  listeners  with 
convincing  power  until  the  abrupt  close  of  the 
scene  between  those  two  men  in  the  old  New  Orleans 
house. 

Everyone  felt  vaguely  surprised  and  disturbed 
when  he  finished— it  was  all  so  totally  unlike  Stuart's 
stories  with  which  he  had  entertained  them  before. 


276  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

They  were  unprepared  for  the  emotions  provoked-, 
and  there  was  in  it,  and  in  the  reading,  a  suggestion 
of  something  beyond  all  that  was  told. 

The  silence  was  so  long  that  Stuart  himself  was 
the  first  to  lift  his  eyes  to  those  opposite,  and  tried  to 
say  carelessly: 

"Well?" 

His  face  was  pale,  but  not  more  so  than  that  of 
Genesee,  who,  surprised  in  that  intent  gaze,  tried  to 
meet  his  eyes  steadily,  but  failed,  faltered,  wavered, 
and  finally  turned  to  Rachel,  as  if  seeking  in  some 
way  his  former  assurance.  And  what  he  saw  there 
was  the  reaching  out  of  her  hand  until  it  touched  Stu 
art's  shoulder  with  a  gesture  of  approving  com 
radeship. 

"Good!"  she  said  tersely;  "don't  ever  again  talk  of 
writing  for  pastime — the  character  of  that  one  man  is 
enough  to  be  proud  of." 

"But  there  are  two  men,"  said  Fred,  finding  her 
voice  again,  with  a  sense  of  relief;  "which  one  do  you 
mean?" 

"No,"  contradicted  Rachel,  with  sharp  decision; 
"I  can  see  only  one — the  Esau." 

Stuart  shrank  a  little  under  her  hand,  not  even 
thanking  her  for  the  words  of  praise;  and,  to  her  sur 
prise,  it  was  Genesee  who  answered  her,  his  eyes 
steady  enough,  except  when  looking  at  the  author  of 
the  story. 

"Don't  be  too  quick  about  playing  judge,"  he  sug 
gested;  and  the  words  took  her  back  like  a  flash  to 
that  other  time  when  he  had  given  her  the  same  curt 
advice.  "May  be  that  boy  had  some  good  points  that 
are  not  put  down  there.  Maybe  he  might  have  had 
plans  about  doing  the  square  thing,  and  something 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  277 

upset  them;  or — or  he  might  have  got  tangled  up  in  a 
lariat  he  wasn't  looking  for  It's  just  natural  bad 
luck  some  men  have  of  getting  tangled  up  like  that; 
and  may  be  he — this  fellow — ' ' 

Fred  broke  out  laughing  at  his  reasoning  for  the 
defense. 

"Why,  Genesee,"  she  said  gleefully,  "an  audience 
of  you  would  be  an  inspiration  to  an  author  or  actor; 
you  are  talking  about  the  man  as  if  he  was  a  flesh  and 
blood  specimen,  instead  of  belonging  to  Mr.  Stuart's 
imagination." 

"Yes,  I  reckon  you're  right,  Miss,"  he  said,  rising  to 
his  feet,  with  a  queer,  half-apologetic  smile;  "you  see, 
I'm  not  used  to  hearing  folks  read — romances."  But 
the  insolent  sarcasm  with  which  he  had  spoken  of  the 
word  at  first  was  gone. 

The  others  had  all  regained  their  tongues,  or  the 
use  of  them,  and  comment  and  praise  were  given  the 
author — not  much  notice  taken  of  Genesee's  opinion 
and  protest.  His  theories  of  the  character  might  be 
natural  ones;  but  his  own  likelihood  for  entanglements, 
to  judge  by  his  reputation,  was  apt  to  prejudice  him, 
rendering  him  unduly  charitable  toward  any  other 
fellow  who  was  unlucky. 

"My  only  objection  to  it,"  said  Tillie,  "is  that  there 
is  not  enough  of  it.  It  seems  unfinished." 

"Well,  he  warned  us  in  the  beginning  that  it  was  only 
a  prologue,"  reminded  her  husband;  "but  there  is  a 
good  deal  in  it,  too,  for  only  a  prologue — a  good  deal." 

"For  my  part,"  remarked  the  Lieutenant,  '  I  don't 
think  I  should  want  anything  added  to  it.  Just  as  it 
stands,  it  proves  the  characters  of  the  two  men.  If  it 
was  carried  further,  it  might  gain  nothing,  and  leave 
nothing  for  one's  imagination." 


278  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that  "  said  Stuart;  "in  fact,  it 
was  only  written  to  help  myself  in  analyzing  two  char 
acters  I  had  in  my  head,  and  could  not  get  rid  of  until 
I  put  them  on  paper.  Authors  are  haunted  by  such 
ghosts  sometimes.  It  is  Miss  Fred's  fault  that  I  resurrected 
this  one  to-night — she  thrust  on  me  the  accidental  remem 
brance." 

"There  are  mighty  few  accidents  in  the  world,"  was 
Genesee's  concise  statement,  as  he  pulled  on  his  heavy 
buckskin  gloves.  "I'm  about  to  cut  for  camp.  Going?" 
This  to  the  Lieutenant. 

After  that  laconic  remark  on  accidents,  no  further 
word  or  notice  was  exchanged  between  Stuart  and 
Genesee;  but  it  was  easily  seen  that  the  story  read  had 
smoothed  out  several  wrinkles  of  threatened  discord 
and  discontent.  It  had  at  least  tamed  the  spirit  of  the 
scout,  and  left  him  more  the  man  Rachel  knew  in  him. 
Her  impatience  at  his  manner  early  in  the  evening  dis 
appeared  as  he  showed  improvement;  and  just  before 
they  left,  she  crossed  over  to  him,  asking  something  of 
the  snows  on  the  Scot  Mountain  trail,  his  eyes  warming 
at  the  directness  of  her  speech  and  movement,  showing 
to  any  who  cared  to  notice  that  she  spoke  to  him  as 
to  a  friend;  but  his  glance  turned  instinctively  from  her 
to  Stuart.  He  remembered  watching  them  that  day  as 
they  rode  from  camp. 

"But  what  of  Davy?"  she  repeated;  "have  you  heard 
any  word  of  him  ? ' ' 

"No,  and  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it,"  he  acknowledged; 
"I  haven't  been  to  see  him  at  all  since  I  got  back.  I've 
had  a  lot  of  things  in  my  head  to  keep  track  of,  and 
didn't  even  send.  I'll  do  it,  though,  in  a  day  or  so — • 
or  else  go  myself." 

I'm  afraid  he  may  be  sick.     If  the  snow  is  not  bad, 


THE  TELLING  OF  A  STORY.  279 

it's  a  wonder  he  has  not  been  down.  I  believe  I  will 
go." 

"I  don't  like  you  to  go  over  those  trails  alone,"  he 
said  in  a  lower  tone;  ''not  just  now,  at  any  rate." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Well,  you  know  these  Indian  troubles  may  bring 
queer  cattle  into  the  country.  The  Kootenai  tribe 
would  rather  take  care  of  you  than  do  you  harm ;  but- 
well,  I  reckon  you  had  better  keep  to  the  ranch  " 

"And  you  don't  reckon  you  can  trust  me  to  tell  me 
why?"  she  said  in  a  challenging  way. 

"It  mightn't  do  any  good  I  don't  know,  you  see, 
that  it  is  really  dangerous,  only  I'd  rather  you'd  keep 
on  the  safe  side;  and — and — don't  say  I  can't  trust  you. 
I'd  trust  you  with  my  life — yes,  more  than  that,  if  I 
had  it!" 

His  voice  was  not  heard  by  the  others,  who  were 
laughing  and  chatting,  it  was  so  low;  but  its  intensity 
made  her  step  back,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Don't  look  as  if  I  frighten  you,"  he  said  quickly; 
''I  didn't  come  in  here  for  that.  You  shouldn't  have 
made  me  come,  anyway — I  belong  to  the  outside; 
coming  in  only  helps  me  remember  it." 

"So  that  was  what  put  you  in  such  a  humor.  I 
thought  it  was  Stuart." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes;  I  know  you  don't  like  him — but,  I  think  you 
are  prejudiced." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  And  she  saw  the  same  inscrutable 
smile  on  his  face  that  she  had  noticed  when  he  looked 
at  Stuart. 

"There— there,"  she  laughed,  throwing  up  her  hand 
as  if  to  check  him,  "don't  tell  me  again  that  I  am  too 
anxious  to  judge  people;  but  he  is  a  good  fellow." 


280  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"And  you  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said  warmly,  look 
ing  down  at  her  with  so  much  feeling  in  his  face  that 
Stuart,  glancing  toward  them,  was  startled  into  strange 
conjectures  at  the  revelation  in  it.  •  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  seen  them  talking  together. 

"And  you're  a  plucky  girl,  too,"  added  Genesee, 
"else  you  wouldn't  stand  here  talking  to  me  before 
everyone.  I'll  remember  it  always  of  you.  Tillikum, 
good  -night  " 


PART   FOURTH 

ONE  SQUAW  MAN 


CHAPTER  I. 

LAMONTI. 

The  next  morning  awoke  with  the  balmy  air  of  spring 
following  the  sunrise  over  the  snow — a  fair,  soft  day, 
with  treachery  back  of  its  smiles ;  for  along  in  the  after 
noon  the  sky  gathered  in  gray  drifts,  and  the  weather- 
wise  prophesied  a  big  snow-fall. 

All  the  morning  Genesee  wrote.  One  page  after 
another  was  torn  up,  and  it  was  the  middle  of  the  after 
noon  before  he  finally  finished  the  work  to  his  satis 
faction,  did  it  up  in  a  flat,  square  package,  and  having 
sealed  it  securely,  called  Kalitan. 

"You  take  this  to  the  express  office  at  the  station," 
he  said;  "get  a  paper  for  it — receipt;  then  go  to  Hol 
land's — to  the  bank  store;  give  them  this,"  and  he 
handed  a  slip  of  written  paper.  "If  they  give  you 
letter,  keep  it  carefully — so,"  and  he  took  from  his  shirt- 
pocket  a  rubber  case  the  size  of  an  ordinary  envelope. 
Evidently  Kalitan  had  carried  it  before,  for  he  opened 
a  rather  intricate  clasp  and  slipped  the  bit  of  paper 
into  it. 

"All  good — not  get  wet,"  he  said,  picking  up  the 
larger  package.  "  The  Arrow  fly  down ;  come  back  how 
soon  ? ' ' 

"Send  this,"  pointing  to  the  package,  "the  first  thing 
in  the  morning;  then  wait  until  night  for  the  stage  from 

281 


282  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Pacific  that  brings  the  mail — may  be  if  road  is  bad  it 
will  not  come  till  next  morning." 

"Kalitan  wait?" 

"Yes,  wait  till  the  stage  comes,  then  ask  for  letter, 
and  keep  your  eyes  open;  watch  for  bad  whites.  Kla- 
howya! ' ' 

Watching  Kalitan  start  off  with  that  package,  he 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  like  a  man  who  had  laid 
down  some  burden;  and  leaving  the  avenue  and  the 
camp  behind,  he  struck  out  over  the  trail  toward  Hardy's, 
not  even  stopping  to  saddle  a  horse.  He  was  going  to 
have  a  "wau-wau"  with  Mowitza. 

He  had  barely  entered  the  stable  door  when  Tillie 
came  across  the  yard,  with  a  shawl  thrown  over  her 
head  and  looking  disturbed. 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Mr.  Genesee?"  she  said,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  disappointment ;  ' '  I  thought  it  was  Hen  or  one 
of  the  others  come  back.  Did  you  meet  them?" 

"Yes;  going  up  the  west  valley  after  stock." 

"The  west  valley!  Then  they  won't  get  back  before 
dark,  and  I — I  don't  know  what  to  do! "  and  the  worried 
look  reached  utter  despair  as  she  spoke. 

"What's  up?     I  can  ride  after  them  if  you  say  so  " 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  should  have  told  Hen 
at  noon;  but  I  knew  it  would  put  him  out  of  patience 
with  Rachel,  and  I  trusted  to  her  getting  back  all  right; 
but  now,  if  the  snow  sets  in  quickly,  and  it  threatens 
to,  she  may  get  lost,  and  I — " 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Gone  to  Scot's  Mountain." 

An  energetic  expletive  broke  from  his  lips,  un 
checked  even  by  the  presence  of  the  little  woman  who 
had  seemed  a  sort  of  Madonna  to  him  in  the  days  a 
year  old.  The  Madonna  did  not  look  much  shocked. 


LAMONTI.  283 

She  had  an  idea  that  the  occasion  was  a  war 
rant  for  condemnation,  and  she  felt  rather  guilty 
herself. 

"One  of  the  Kootenai  tribe  came  here  this  morn 
ing  t  and  after  jabbering  Chinook  with  him,  she 
told  me  Davy  MacDougall  was  sick,  and  she  was  going 
to  ride  up  there.  Hen  was  out,  and  she  wouldn't 
listen  to  Miss  Fred  and  me — just  told  us  to  keep 
quiet  and  not  tell  him  where  she  was,  and  that  she 
would  get  back  for  supper;  so  we  haven't  said  a 
word;  and  now  the  snow  is  coming,  she  may  get 
lost." 

Tillie  was  almost  in  tears;  it  was  easy  to  see  she  was 
terribly  frightened,  and  very  remorseful  for  keeping 
Rachel's  command  to  say  nothing  to  Hardy. 

"Did  that  Indian^  go  with  her?" 

"No;  and  she  started  him  back  first,  up  over  that 
hill,  to  be  sure  he  would  not  go  over  to  the  camp.  I 
can't  see  what  her  idea  was  for  that." 

Genesee  could — it  was  to  prevent  him  from  knowing 
she  was  going  up  into  the  hills  despite  his  caution. 

"There  is  not  a  man  left  on  the  place,  except  Jim," 
continued  Tillie,  "or  I  would  send  them  after  her. 
But  Jim  does  not  know  the  short-cut  trail  that  I've 
heard  Rachel  speak  of,  and  he  might  miss  her  in  the 
hills;  and — oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!" 

Genesee  reached  to  the  wooden  peg  where  his  sad 
dle  hung,  and  threw  it  across  Mowitza's  back. 

In  a  moment  Tillie  understood  what  it  meant,  and 
felt  that,  capable  as  he  might  be,  he  was  not  the  person 
she  should  send  as  guardian  for  a  young  girl.  To  be 
sure,  he  had  once  before  filled  that  position,  and  brought 
her  in  safety;  but  that  was  before  his  real  character 
was  known. 


284  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Tillie  thought  of  what  the  rest  would  say,  of  what 
Stuart  would  think  for  she  had  already  bracketed 
Rachel  and  Stuart  in  her  match-making  calendar. 
She  was  between  several  fires  of  anxiety  and  in 
decision,  as  she  noted  the  quick  buckling  of  straps 
and  the  appropriation  of  two  blankets  from  the  hanging 
shelf  above  them. 

' '  Are  you — can  you  get  someone  to  go  for  me —  from 
the  camp?"  she  asked  hurriedly.  He  turned  and  looked 
at  her  with  a  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  answered  briefly;  and  then,  seeing 
her  face  flushed  and  embarrassed,  the  smile  died  out  as 
he  felt  what  her  thoughts  were.  ''Who  do  you  want?" 
he  added,  leading  Mowitza  out  and  standing  beside 
her,  ready  to  mount. 

She  did  not  even  look  up.  She  felt  exactly  as  she 
had  when  she  told  Hen  that  she  knew  she  was  right, 
and  yet  felt  ashamed  of  herself. 

"  I  thought  if  you  could  spare  Kalitan — "  she  hesi 
tated.  "She  knows  him,  and  he  has  been  with  her  so 
often  up  there,  no  one  else  would  know  so  well  where 
to  look  for  her — that  is,  if  you  could  spare  him,"  she 
added  helplessly. 

"The  chances  are  that  I  can,"  he  said  in  a  business 
like  way;  "and  if  I  was  you  I'd  just  keep  quiet  about 
the  trip,  or  else  tell  them  she  has  an  Indian  guide — • 
and  she  will  have.  Can  you  give  me  a  bottle  of  brandy 
and  some  biscuits?" 

She  ran  into  the  house,  and  came  back  with  them  at 
once.  He  was  mounted  and  awaiting  her. 

"Kalitan  has  left  the  camp — gone  over  that  hill;" 
and  he  motioned  rather  vaguely  toward  the  ridge 
across  the  valley.  "I'll  just  ride  over  and  start 
him  from  there,  so  he  won't  need  to  go  back  to  camp 


'Don't  you  worry;  just  keep  quiet,  and  she'll  come  back  all  right 
with  Kal-itan."     Page  285. 


LAMONTI.  285 

for  rations.  Don't  you  worry;  just  keep  quiet,  and 
she'll  come  back  all  right  with  Kalitan." 

He  turned  without  further  words,  and  rode  away 
through  the  soft  flakes  of  snow  that  were  already  begin 
ning  to  fall.  He  did  not  even  say  a  good-bye;  and 
Tillie,  hedged  in  by  her  convictions  and  her  anxiety, 
let  him  go  without  even  a  word  of  thanks." 

"I  simply  did  not  dare  to  say  'thank  you'  to  him," 
she  thought,  as  he  disappeared.  And  then  she  went 
into  the  house  and  eased  Fred's  heart  and  her  own 
conscience  with  the  statement  that  Kalitan,  the  best 
guide  Rachel  could  have,  had  gone  to  meet  her.  She 
made  no  mention  of  the  objectionable  character  who 
had  sent  Kalitan. 

By  the  time  of  sunset,  Scot's  Mountain  was  smothered 
in  the  white  cloud  that  had  closed  over  it  so 
suddenly,  and  the  snow  was  still  falling  straight 
down,  and  so  steadily  that  one  could  not  retrace  steps 
and  find  tracks  ten  minutes  after  they  were  made. 
Through  the  banked-up  masses  a  white-coated 
unrecognizable  individual  plowed  his  way  to  Mac- 
Dougall's  door,  and  without  ceremony  opened  it  and 
floundered  in,  carrying  with  him  what  looked  enough 
snow  to  smother  a  man;  but  his  eyes  were  clear  of  it, 
and  a  glance  told  him  the  cabin  had  but  one  occu 
pant. 

"When  did  she  leave?"  was  the  salutation  Mac- 
Dougall  received,  after  a  separation  of  six  weeks. 

"Why,  Jack,  my  lad!" 

"Yes,  that's  who  it  is,  and  little  time  to  talk.  Has 
she  been  here?" 

"The  lass— Rachel?  She  has  that — a  sight  for  sore 
eyes— and  set  all  things  neat  and  tidy  for  me  in  no 
time;"  and  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  clean-swept 


286  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

hearth,  and  the  table  with  clean  dishes,  and  a  basket 
with  a  loaf  of  new  bread  showing  through.  "But  she 
did  na  stay  long  wi'  me.  The  clouds  were  comin'  up 
heavy,  she  said,  and  she  must  get  home  before  the 
snow  fell;  an'  it  snows  now?" 

"Well,  rather.     Can't  you  see  out?" 

"I  doubt  na  I've  had  a  nap  since  she  left;"  and  the 
old  man  raised  himself  stiffly  from  the  bunk.  "I  got 
none  the  night,  for  the  sore  pain  o'  my  back,  but  the 
lass  helped  me.  She's  a  rare  helpful  one." 

"Which  trail  did  she  take?"  asked  Genesee  impa 
tiently. 

He  saw  the  old  man  was  not  able  to  help  him  look 
for  her,  and  did  not  want  to  alarm  him;  but  to  stand 
listening  to  comments  when  every  minute  was  deepen 
ing  the  snow,  and  the  darkness — well,  it  was  a  test  to  the 
man  waiting. 

"I  canna  say  for  sure,  but  she  spoke  o'  the  trail 
through  the  Maples  being  the  quickest  way  home; 
likely  she  took  it." 

Genesee  turned  to  the  door  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 
He  had  come  that  way  and  seen  no  sign  of  her;  but 
the  trail  wound  above  gulches  where  a  misstep  was 
fatal,  and  where  a  horse  and  rider  could  be  buried  in 
the  depths  that  day  and  leave  no  trace. 

At  the  door  he  stopped  and  glanced  at  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall,  and  then  about  the  cabin. 

' '  Are  you  fixed  all  right  here  in  case  of  being  snowed 
in?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  that — for  four  weeks,  if  need  be;  but  does  it 
look  like  that  out  ? ' ' 

"Pretty  much.  Good-bye,  Davy;"  and  he  walked 
back  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  old  man,  who  looked 
at  him  wonderingly.  Though  their  friendship  was 


LAMONTI.  287 

earnest,  they  were  never  demonstrative,  and  Genesee 
usually  left  with  a  careless  kldhowya! 

"Why,  lad— " 

"I'm  going  to  look  for  her,  Davy,  If  I  find  her, 
you'll  hear  of  it;  if  I  don't,  tell  the  cursed  fools  at  the 
ranch  that  I — that  I  sent  a  guide  who  would  give  his 
life  for  her.  Good-bye,  old  fellow — good-bye." 

Down  over  the  mountain  he  went,  leading  Mowitza, 
and  breaking  the  path  ahead  of  her — slow,  slow  work. 
At  that  rate  of. travel,  it  would  be  morning  before  he 
could  reach  the  ranch;  and  he  must  find  her  first. 

He  found  he  could  have  made  more  speed  with  snow- 
shoes  and  without  Mowitza — the  snow  was  banking 
up  so  terribly.  The  valley  was  almost  reached  when 
a  queer  sound  came  to  him  through  the  thick  veil  of 
white  that  had  turned  gray  with  coming  night. 

Mowitza  heard  it,  too,  for  she  threw  up  her  head 
and  answered  it  with  a  long  whinny,  even  before  her 
master  had  decided  what  the  noise  was;  but  it  came 
again,  and  then  he  had  no  doubt  it  was  the  call  of  a 
horse,  and  it  was  somewhere  on  the  hill  above 
him. 

He  fastened  Mowitza  to  a  tree,  and  started  up  over 
the  way  he  had  come,  stopping  now  and  then  to  call, 
but  hearing  no  answer — not  even  from  the  horse,  that 
suggested  some  phantom-like  steed  that  had  passed  in 
the  white  storm. 

Suddenly,  close  to  him,  he  heard  a  sound  much  more 
human — a  whistle;  and  in  a  moment  he  plunged  in 
that  direction,  and  almost  stumbled  over  a  form  hud 
dled  against  a  fallen  tree.  He  could  not  see  her  face. 
He  did  not  need  to.  She  was  in  his  arms,  and  she 
was  alive.  That  was  enough.  But  she  lay  strangely 
still  for  a  live  woman,  and  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for 


288  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

that  whisky-flask;  a  little  of  the  fiery  liquor  strangled 
her,  but  aroused  her  entirely. 

"Jack?" 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  if  I  called  long  enough  you  would  come; 
but  I  can  only  whisper  now.  You  came  just  in  time." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Oh,  hours,  I  think.  I  started  for  the  gulch  trail, 
and  couldn't  make  it  with  snow  on  the  ground.  Then 
I  tried  for  the  other  trail,  but  got  lost  in  the  snow— 
couldn't  even  find  the  cabin.  Help  me  up,  will  you? 
I  guess  I'm  all  right  now." 

She  was  not,  quite,  for  she  staggered  woefully;  and 
he  caught  her  quickly  to  him  and  held  her  with  one 
arm,  while  he  fumbled  for  some  matches  with  the 
other. 

"You're  a  healthy-looking  specimen,"  was  the  rather 
depreciating  verdict  he  gave  at  sight  of  the  white, 
tired  face.  She  smiled  from  the  pillow  of  his  shoul 
der,  but  did  not  open  her  eyes;  then  the  match  flick 
ered  and  went  out,  and  he  could  see  her  no  more. 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  at  home,  as  I  told  you  to?" 

"Didn't  want  to." 

"Don't  you  know  I'm  likely  to  catch  my  death  of 
cold  tramping  here  after  you  ? ' ' 

"No,"  with  an  intonation  that  sounded  rather  heart 
less;  "you  never  catch  cold." 

The  fact  that  she  had  not  lost  her  old  spirit,  if  she 
had  her  voice,  was  a  great  point  in  her  favor,  and  he 
had  a  full  appreciation  of  it.  She  was  tired  out,  and 
hoarse,  but  still  had  pluck  enough  to  attempt  the  trip 
to  the  ranch. 

"We've  got  to  make  it,"  she  decided,  when  the  sub 
ject  was  broached;  "we  can  make  it  to-night  as  well 


LAMONTI.  289 

as  to-morrow,  if  you  know  the  trail.     Did  you  say  you 
had  some  biscuits?     Well,  I'm  hungry." 

"You  generally  are,"  he  remarked,  with  a  dryness  in 
no  way  related  to  the  delight  with  which  he  got  the 
biscuits  for  her  and  insisted  on  her  swallowing  some 
more  of  the  whisky.  ' '  Are  you  cold  ? ' ' 

"No — not  a  bit;  and  that  seems  funny,  too.  If  it 
hadn't  been  such  a  soft,  warm  snow,  I  should  have  been 
frozen." 

He  left  her  and  went  to  find  the  mare,  which  he  did 
without  much  trouble;  and  in  leading  her  back  over 
the  little  plateau  he  was  struck  with  a  sense  of  being 
on  familiar  ground.  It  was  such  a  tiny  little  shelf 
jutting  out  from  the  mountain. 

Swathed  in  snow  as  it  was,  and  with  the  darkness  above 
it,  he  felt  so  confident  that  he  walked  straight  out  to 
where  the  edge  should  be  if  he  was  right.  Yes,  there 
was  the  sudden  shelving  that  left  the  little  plot  inac 
cessible  from  one  side. 

"Do  you  know  where  we  are,  my  girl?"  he  asked  as 
he  rejoined  her. 

"Somewhere  on  Scot's  Mountain,"  she  hazarded;  the 
possessive  term  used  by  him  had  a  way  of  depriving 
her  of  decided  opinions. 

"You're  just  about  the  same  place  where  you  watched 
the  sun  come  up  once — may  be  you  remember?" 

"Yes." 

He  had  helped  her  up.  They  stood  there  silent 
what  seemed  a  long  time ;  then  he  spoke : 

"I've  come  here  often  since  that  time.  It's  been  a 
sort  of  a  church — one  that  no  one  likely  ever  set  foot  in 
but  you  and  me."  He  paused  as  if  in  hesitation;  then 
continued:  "I've  wished  often  I  could  see  you  here 
again  in  the  same  place,  just  because  I  got  so  fond  of  it; 


290  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

and  I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  it,  but  this  little 
bit  of  the  mountain  has  something  witched  in  it  for 
me.  I  felt  in  the  dark  when  my  feet  touched  it,  and  I 
have  a  fancy,  after  it's  all  over,  to  be  brought  up  here 
and  laid  where  we  stood  that  morning." 

"Jack,"  and  her  other  hand  was  reached  impulsively 
to  his,  "  what's  the  matter — what  makes  you  speak  like 
that  now?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  idea  came  strong  to  me  back 
there,  and  I  felt  as  if  you — you — were  the  only  one  I 
could  tell  it  to,  for  you  know  nearly  all  now — all  the 
bad  in  me,  too;  yet  you've  never  been  the  girl  to  draw 
away  or  keep  back  your  hand  if  you  felt  I  needed  it. 
Ah,  my  girl,  you  are  one  in  a  thousand!" 

He  was  speaking  in  the  calmest,  most  dispassionate 
way,  as  if  it  was  quite  a  usual  thing  to  indulge  in  dis 
sertations  of  this  sort,  with  the  snow  slowly  covering 
them.  Perhaps  he  was  right  in  thinking  the  place 
witched. 

"You've  been  a  good  friend  to  me,"  he  continued, 
"whether  I  was  near  or  far — MacDougall  told  me 
things  that  proved  it;  and  if  my  time  should  come 
quick,  as  many  a  man's  has  in  the  Indian  country,  I 
believe  you  would  see  I  was  brought  here,  where  I 
want  to  be." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  it,"  she  said  earnestly;  "but  I 
don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that — it  isn't  like  you. 
You  give  me  a  queer,  uncanny  feeling.  I  can't  see 
you,  and  I  am  not  sure  it  is  Jack — nika  tiltikum — I 
am  talking  to  at  all.  If  you  keep  it  up,  you  will  have 
me  nervous." 

He  held  her  hand  and  drew  it  up  to  his  throat,  press 
ing  his  chin  against  the  fingers  with  a  movement  that 
was  as  caressive  as  a  kiss. 


LAMONTI.  291 

"Don't  you  be  afraid,"  he  said  gently;  ''you  are 
afraid  of  nothing  else,  and  you  must  never  be  of  me. 
Come,  come,  my  girl,  if  we're  to  go,  we'd  better  be 
getting  a  move  on." 

The  prosaic  suggestion  seemed  an  interruption  of  his 
own  tendencies,  which  were^  not  prosaic.  The  girl 
slipped  her  fingers  gently  but  decidedly  from  their 
resting-place  so  near  his  lips,  and  laid  her  one  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"Yes,  we  must  be  going,  or"— and  he  knew  she  was 
smiling,  though  the  darkness  hid  her — "or  it  will  look 
as  if  there  are  two  witched  folks  in  our  chapel — our 
white  chapel — to-night.  I'm  glad  we  happened  here, 
since  the  thought  is  any  comfort  to  you;  but  I  hope  it 
will  be  many  a  day  before  you  are  brought  here,  instead 
of  bringing  yourself." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  through  the  white  masses 
turned  their  faces  down  the  mountain.  The  mare  fol 
lowed  meekly  after.  The  stimulant  of  bread  and 
whisky— and  more,  the  coming  of  this  man,  of  whom 
§he  was  so  stubbornly  confident— had  acted  as  a  tonic 
to  Rachel,  and  she  struggled  through  bravely,  accept 
ing  little  of  help,  and  had  not  once  asked  how  he  came 
to  be  there  instead  of  the  ranchmen. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  of  their  past  association, 
and  that  one  night  together  when  he  had  carried  her 
in  his  arms;  but  whatever  he  was  to  the  other  people, 
he  had  always  seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  guardian  of  the 
hills  and  all  lost  things. 

She  did  not  think  of  his  presence  there  nearly  so  much 
as  she  did  of  those  ideas  of  his  that  seemed  "uncanny." 
He,  such  a  bulwark  of  physical  strength,  to  speak  like 
that  of  a  grave-site!  It  added  one  more  to  the  con 
tradictions  she  had  seen  in  him, 


292  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Several  things  were  in  her  mind  to  say  to  him,  and 
not  all  of  them  pleasant.  She  had  heard  a  little  of 
the  ideas  current  as  to  his  Indian  sympathies,  and 
the  doubt  with  which  he  was  regarded  in  camp;  and, 
while  she  defended  him,  she  many  times  felt  vexed 
that  he  cared  so  little  about  defending  himself.  And 
with  the  memory  of  the  night  before,  and  feminine 
comments  at  the  ranch  after  he  had  gone,  she  made  an 
attempt  to  storm  his  stubbornness  during  a  short 
breathing-spell  when  they  rested  against  the  great  bole 
of  a  tree. 

"Genesee,  why  don't  you  let  the  other  folks  at  the 
ranch,  or  the  camp,  know  you  as  I  do?"  was  the  first 
break,  at  which  he  laughed  shortly. 

"They  may  know  me  the  best  of  the  two." 
"But  they  don't;  I  know  they  don't;  you  know  they 
don't." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  he  suggested;  "I'm  not  sure 
either  way,  and  when  a  man  can't  bet  on  himself,  it 
isn't  fair  to  expect  his  friends  to.  You've  been  the 
only  one  of  them  all  to  pin  faith  to  me,  with  not  a  thing 
to  prove  that  you  had  reason  for  it;  it's  just  out-and- 
out  faith,  nothing  else.  What  they  think  doesn't 
count,  nor  what  I've  been;  but  if  ever  I  get  where 
I  can  talk  to  you,  you'll  know,  may  be,  how  much  a 
woman's  faith  can  help  a  man  when  he's  down.  But 
don't  you  bother  your  head  over  what  they  think.  If 
I'm  any  good,  they'll  know  it  sometime;  if  I'm  not, 
you'll  know  that,  too.  That's  enough  said,  isn't  it? 
And  we'd  better  break  away  from  here;  we're  about 
the  foot  of  the  mountain,  I  reckon." 

Then  he  took  possession  of  her  hand  again,  and 
led  her  on  in  the  night;  and  she  felt  that  her 
attempt  had  been  a  failure,  except  that  it  showed  how 


LAMONTI.  293 

closely  he  held  her  regard,  and  she  was  too  human  not 
to  be  moved  by  the  knowledge.  Yes,  he  was  very 
improper,  as  much  so  as  most  men,  only  it  had  hap 
pened  to  be  in  a  way  that  was  shocking  to  tenderfeet 
lucky  enough  to  have  families  and  homes  as  safe 
guards  against  evil.  He  was  very  disreputable,  and, 
socially,  a  great  gulf  would  be  marked  between  them 
by  their  friends.  But  in  the  hills,  where  the  universe 
dwindled  to  earth,  sky,  and  two  souls,  they  were  but 
man  and  woman;  and  all  the  puzzling  things  about 
him  that  were  blameful  things  melted  away,  as  the 
snow  that  fell  on  their  faces.  She  felt  his  strong  pres 
ence  as  a  guard  about  her,  and  without  doubt  or  hesita 
tion  she  kept  pace  beside  him. 

Once  in  the  valley,  she  mounted  Betty,  and  letting 
Mowitza  follow,  he  walked  ahead  himself,  to  break 
the  trail — a  slow,  slavish  task,  and  the  journey  seemed 
endless.  Hour  after  hour  went  by  in  that  slow  march 
— scarcely  a  word  spoken,  save  when  rest  was  iiec- 
cessary;  and  the  snow  never  ceased  falling — a  widely 
different  journey  from  that  other  time  when  he  had 
hunted  and  found  her. 

''You  have  your  own  time  finding  the  trail  for  me 
when  I  get  lost,"  she  said  once,  as  he  lifted  her  to  the 
saddle  after  a  short  rest. 

"You  did  the  same  thing  for  me  one  day,  a  good 
while  ago,"  he  answered  simply. 

The  night  had  reached  its  greatest  darkness,  in  the 
hours  that  presage  the  dawn,  when  they  crossed  the 
last  ridge,  and  knew  that  rest  was  at  last  within  com 
paratively  easy  reach.  Then  for  the  first  time,  Genesee 
spoke  of  his  self-imposed  search. 

"I  reckon  you  know  I'm  an  Indian?"  he  said  by 
way  of  preface. 


294  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort." 
"But  I  am— a  regular  adopted  son  in  the  Kootenai 
tribe,  four  years  old;  so  if  they  ask  you  if  an  Indian 
guide  brought  you  home,  you  can  tell  them  yes,     Do 
you  see?" 

"Yes,  I  see,  but  not  the  necessity.  Why  should  I 
not  tell  them  you  brought  me?" 

"May  be  you  know,  and  may  be  you  don't,  that  I'm 
not  supposed  to  range  far  from  camp,  Kalitan  was 
to  go  for  you.  Kalitan  had  some  other  work,  and 
sent  a  Kootenai  friend  of  his.  The  friend's  name  is 
Lamonti.  Can  you  mind  that?  It  means  'the  moun 
tain.'  I  come  by  it  honest— it's  a  present  Grey  Eagle 
made  me.  If  they  ask  questions  about  your  guide, 
just  put  them  off  some  way— tell  them  you  don't  know 
where  he's  gone  to;  and  you  won't.  Now,  can  you  do 
that?" 

"I  can,  of  course;  but  I  don't  like  to  have  you  leave 
like  this,  You  must  be  half-dead,  and  I— Jack,  Jack, 
what  would  I  have  done  without  you!" 

He  was  so  close,  in  the  darkness,  that  in  throwing 
out  her  hand  it  touched  his  face,  one  of  the  trivial 
accidents  that  turn  lives  sometimes.  He  caught  it, 
pressing  it  to  his  lips,  his  eyes,  his  cheek. 

"Don't  speak  like  that,  unless  you  want  to  make  a 
crazy  man  of  me,"  he  muttered.  "I  can't  stand  every 
thing.  God!  girl,  you'll  never  know,  and  I— can't  tell 
you!  For  Christ  sake,  don't  act  as  if  you  were  afraid 
-the  only  one  who  has  ever  had  faith  in  me!  I  think 
that  would  wake  up  all  the  devil  you  helped  put  asleep 
once.  Here!  give  me  your  hand  again,  just  once- 
just  to  show  you  trust  me.  I'll  be  worth  it— I  swear  I 
will!  I'll  never  come  near  you  again!" 

The  bonds  under  which  he  had  held  himself  so  long 


LAMONTI.  295 

had  broken  at  the  touch  of  her  hand  and  the  impul 
sive  tenderness  of  her  appeal.  Through  the  half  sob 
in  his  wild  words  had  burst  all  the  repressed  emotions 
of  desolate  days  and  lonely  nights,  and  the  force  of 
them  thrilled  the  girl,  half-stunned  her,  for  she  could 
not  speak.  A  sort  of  terror  of  his  broken,  passionate 
speech  had  drawn  her  quickly  back  from  him,  and  she 
seemed  to  live  hours  in  that  second  of  indecision.  All 
her  audacity  and  self-possession  vanished  as  a  bulwark 
of  straws  before  a  flood.  Her  hands  trembled,  and 
a  great  compassion  filled  her  for  this  alien  by  whose 
side  she  would  have  to  stand  against  the  world.  That 
certainty  it  must  have  been  that  decided  her,  as  it  has 
decided  many  another  woman,  and  ennobled  many 
a  love  that  otherwise  would  have  been  commonplace. 
And  though  her  hands  trembled,  they  trembled  out 
toward  him,  and  fell  softly  as  a  benediction  on  his 
upturned  face. 

"I  think  you  will  come  to  me  again,"  she  said  tremu 
lously,  as  she  leaned  low  from  the  saddle  and 
felt  tears  as  well  as  kisses  on  her  hands,  "and  you  are 
worth  it  now,  I  believe;  worth  more  than  I  can  give 
you." 

A  half -hour  later  Rachel  entered  the  door  of  the  ranch, 
and  found  several  of  its  occupants  sleepless  and  await 
ing  some  tidings  of  her.  In  the  soft  snow  they  had  not 
heard  her  arrival  until  she  stepped  on  the  porch. 

"I've  been  all  night  getting  here,"  she  said,  glanc 
ing  at  the  clock  that  told  an  hour  near  dawn,  "and 
I'm  too  tired  to  talk;  so  don't  bother  me.  See  how 
hoarse  I  am.  No;  Kalitan  did  not  bring  me.  It  was 
a  Kootenai  called  Lamonti.  I  don't  know  where  he 
has  gone — wouldn't  come  in.  Just  keep  quiet  and  let 
me  get  to  bed,  will  you?" 


296  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    PHILOSOPHICAL    HORSE-THIEF. 

An  hour  before  dawn  the  wind  came,  hurtling  down 
through  the  mountains  and  moaning  along  the  val 
leys;  before  it  drove  the  flying  snow  in  great  chilly 
sheets,  as  it  was  lifted  from  the  high  places  and  spread 
in  every  nook  that  would  warrant  its  safe-keeping. 

Through  its  fitful  gusts  Genesee  walked  into  camp, 
his  tracks  filled  by  the  eager  flakes  as  he  left  them. 
There  seemed  a  strange  alertness  about  the  place, 
for  so  early  an  hour — even  through  the  commotion, 
blissful  and  despairing,  in  his  own  breast,  he  noticed 
it  as  the  guard  hailed  him,  and  when  he  replied,  he 
heard  from  that  individual  an  excited  exclamatior  of 
astonishment. 

"By  jolly,  if  it  ain't  Genesee!" 

"I  reckon  it  is,"  he  answered,  and  passed  on,  too 
tired,  yet  elated  by  his  night's  work,  to  care  whether 
or  not  his  absence  had  been  commented  on. 

The  door  of  the  shack  had  barely  closed  on  him 
when  one  of  the  several  lanterns  that  he  had  noticed 
floating  like  stars  along  the  snow  stopped  at  his  door, 
then  a  knock,  and  the  entrance  of  a  very  wide-awake 
looking  corporal. 

"You  are  to  report  to  Captain  Holt  at  once,"  was 
the  message  he  brought. 

"What's  up?"  and  the  boot  that  was  half-way  off 
was  yanked  on  again. 

"That's  all  the  message  I  was  given." 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  HORSE-THIEF.  297 

"The  hell  you  say!     Well,  trot  along." 

His  own  frowning  perplexity  was  no  more  decided 
than  that  of  Captain  Holt,  as  he  looked  up  to  notice 
the  entrance  of  the  scout — and  there  was  little  of  friend 
liness  in  the  look. 

"You  sent  a  man  to  say  you  wanted  me." 

"Yes,  I  sent  a  man  about  two  hours  ago  to  say  I 
wanted  you,"  was  the  ironical  reply.  "You  were  not 
to  be  found.  Have  you  any  report  to  make?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  said  curtly.  A  sort  of 
quiet  antagonism  had  always  been  felt  between  the 
chief  of  scouts  and  the  new  commander,  but  this  was 
the  first  time  any  expression  had  been  given  it,  and 
Genesee's  intolerance  quickly  responded  to  the  man 
ner  of  the  officer  that  had  in  it  both  dislike  and  dis 
trust. 

"Then  you  refuse  to  tell  me  where  you  spent  the 
night?" 

The  light  in  Genesee's  eyes  flashed  sudden  defi 
ance. 

"Yes;  if  it  comes  to  that,  and  that's  the  way  you  put 
it,  I  do." 

"You  had  better  think  twice  before  you  give  that 
answer,"  advised  Captain  Holt,  his  face  paling  with 
anger  at  the  insubordination;  "and  another  question 
to  be  put  to  you  is,  Where  is  the  half-breed,  your  run 
ner?" 

"I  don't  know  as  that  concerns  you,  either,"  answered 
Genesee  coolly.  "He  is  my  Indian,  and  neither  of  us 
belonging  to  the  United  States  Army,  we  can  leave 
camp  when  it  suits  us.  But  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
I  sent  him  to  Holland's  yesterday." 

"For  what  purpose?" 

"My  own  business." 


298  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"The  same  thing  that  took  you  from  camp  at  three 
yesterday  and  kept  you  out  all  night?" 

"Just  so," 

"Then,  since  you  refuse  to  answer  a  very  necessary 
question,  you  may — until  I  have  an  opportunity  of 
investigating  an  absence  that  is,  to  say  the  least,  sus 
picious — you  may  consider  yourself  under  arrest." 

"  What  in—" 

"For  horse-stealing,"  finished  the  Captain  calmly. 

Genesee's  hand  dropped  to  his  belt  in  a  suggestive 
manner,  and  from  the  door  two  guards  stepped  for 
ward.  He  turned  to  look  at  them,  and  the  ridiculous 
idea  of  his  arrest  quelled  the  quick  rage  that  had  flashed 
up  in  his  face. 

"You  needn't  have  troubled  yourself  with  these  pro 
tectors,"  he  remarked,  "for  I  reckon  there  isn't  much 
I'd  want  to  do  that  they  would  stop  me  from;  and  as 
for  you — this  is  a  piece  of  dirty  work  for  some  end.  I'm 
ready  to  be  put  under  arrest,  just  to  see  some  fun  when 
your  commander  gets  back.  And  now  may  be  you'll 
just  tell  me  whose  horse  I  stole?" 

"It  is  not  one  horse,  but  one-half  the  stock  belong 
ing  to  the  company,  that  was  run  off  by  your  Kootenai 
friends  last  night,"  replied  Captain  Holt  grimly;  "and 
as  your  disappearance  was  likely  helpful  to  them, 
and  a  matter  of  mystery  to  the  command,  you  will 
be  debarred  from  visiting  them  again  until  the  mat 
ter  is  investigated.  Even  the  explanation  is  more 
than  your  insolence  deserves.  You  can  go  back  to  your 
quarters." 

"It's  an  infernal  lie!"  burst  out  Genesee  wrathfully. 
"No  Kootenai  touched  your  stock.  It's  been  some 
thieving  Blackfeet  and  their  white  friends;  and  if  you 
interfere  with  the  Kootenais,  and  try  to  put  it  on 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  HORSE-THIEF.  200 

their  shoulders,  you'll  get  yourself  in  trouble — big 
trouble." 

"When  I  want  your  advice,  I  will  ask  for  it,"  was 
the  natural  reply  to  the  contradiction  and  half  threat. 
Genesee  walked  to  the  door  with  the  guards,  and  turning, 
came  back. 

"Captain  Holt,"  with  more  of  appeal  in  manner 
than  one  would  look  for  in  him,  "I'm  ready  to  take  my 
chances  in  this  business,  and  I'm  not  trying  to  give 
advice,  but  I'm  going  to  ask  you,  on  the  reputation 
you  know  I  have  in  Indian  matters,  to  be  mighty 
careful  what  you  do  or  what  you  let  the  men  do  toward 
the  Kootenai  people.  They're  only  waiting  the  Major's 
return  to  send  word  to  camp  that  their  arms  and 
fighting  braves  are  willing  to  help  the  troops  against 
the  Blackfeet  if  they're  needed.  I  know  it.  Their 
messenger  is  likely  to  come  any  day;  and  it  will  be  a 
bad  thing  for  our  cause  if  their  friendliness  is  broken 
by  this  suspicion." 

"Your  cause?" 

"No,  I  haven't  got  any,"  he  retorted.  "I'm  not 
talking  for  myself — I'm  out  of  it;  but  I  mean  the  cause 
of  lives  here  in  the  valley — the  lives  on  both  sides — 
that  would  be  lost  in  a  useless  fight.  It's  all  useless." 

"And  you  acknowledge,  then,  that  you  don't  consider 
the  cause  of  the  whites  as  your  own  cause?"  asked  the 
Captain  quietly. 

"Yes!"  he  burst  out  emphatically,  "I'll  own  up  to 
you  or  anyone  else;  so  make  me  a  horse-thief  on  that, 
if  you  can!  I'd  work  for  the  reds  quicker  than  for 
you,  if  there  was  anything  to  be  gained  by  fighting  for 
them;  but  there  isn't  They'd  only  kill,  and  be  killed 
off  in  the  end.  If  I've  worked  on  your  side,  it's  been 
to  save  lives,  not  to  take  them;  and  if  I've  got  any  sym- 


300  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

pathies  in  the  matter,  it's  with  the  reds.  They've 
been  dogged  to  death  by  your  damned  'cause.'  Now 
you've  got  my  ideas  in  a  nut-shell." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  Captain  sarcastically,  "very  plainly 
expressed.  To  establish  entirely  your  sympathy  with 
your  red  friends,  it  only  remains  for  you  to  be  equally 
frank  and  report  your  movements  of  last  night." 

"Go  to  hell  and  find  out;"  and  with  this  climax  of 
insubordination,  the  scout  left  the  presence  of  the  com 
manding  officer  and  marched  back  to  his  shack,  where 
he  took  possession  of  the  bunk  and  was  sound  asleep 
in  five  minutes,  and  altogether  undisturbed  by  the  fact 
that  a  guard  was  stationed  at  the  door  of  the  impromptu 
prison  with  orders  to  shoot  him  if  an  attempt  to  escape 
was  made. 

Captain  Holt's  leniency  with  the  scout,  who  simply 
ignored  military  rule  and  obedience  in  a  place  where 
it  was  the  only  law,  was,  for  him,  phenomenal. 

The  one  thing  in  Genesee's  favor  was  his  voluntary 
return  to  camp ;  and  until  he  learned  what  scheme  was 
back  of  that,  the  Captain  was  obliged,  with  the  thought 
of  his  superior  officer  in  mind  and  the  scout's  im 
portance,  to  grant  him  some  amenities,  ignore  his 
insolence,  and  content  himself  with  keeping  him  under 
guard. 

The  guard  outside  was  not  nearly  so  strong  in  its  con 
trol  of  Genesee  as  the  bonds  of  sleep  that  held  him 
through  the  morning  and  well-nigh  high  noon.  He 
had  quickly  summed  up  the  case  after  his  interview 
with  Holt,  and  decided  that  in  two  days,  at  most,  the 
Major  would  be  back,  and  that  the  present  commander 
would  defer  any  decided  movement  toward  the 
Kootenais  until  then.  As  for  the  horses,  that  was 
a  bad  business;  but  if  they  chose  to  put  him  under 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  HORSE-THIEF.  301 

arrest,  they  plainly  took  from  him  the  responsibility 
of  hunting  for  stock.  So  he  decided,  and  in  the  free 
dom  from  any  further  care,  dropped  asleep.  Once  a 
guard  came  in  with  some  breakfast,  which  he  ate  drows 
ily,  and  turned  again  to  his  pillow. 

"When  that  fool,  the  commanding  officer,  concludes 
to  let  up  on  this  arrest,  there's  likely  to  be  some  work 
to  do — I'll  fortify  myself  while  I  have  the  chance;" 
and  that  determination,  added  to  his  exhaustion,  served 
to  make  his  rest  a  very  deliberate  affair,  not  to  be  dis 
turbed  by  trifles. 

Several  things  occurred  during  that  winter's  morn 
ing  that  were  far  from  trifling;  yet  no  sound  of  them 
came  to  him,  not  even  when  a  shot  on  the  ridge 
echoed  across  the  valley,  and  ten  minutes  later  was 
followed  by  several  more,  accompanied  by  yells,  heard 
faintly,  but  clearly  enough  to  tell  that  a  skirmish 
ing  party  was  having  a  shooting-match  with  some 
one  across  the  hills.  In  three  minutes  every  horse 
left  in  camp  was  mounted  and  scurrying  fast  as  their 
feet  could  carry  them  through  the  drifts,  while  the 
horseless  ones,  whose  stock  had  been  run  off  in  the 
muffled  silence  of  the  snow-storm,  remained  unwil- 
ingly  behind. 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue  Lieutenant  Murray  caught 
sight  of  Stuart  and  Hardy,  riding  toward  camp. 
There  was  a  hallooed  invitation  to  join,  another  of 
acceptance,  and  the  civilians  joined  the  irregular 
cavalcade  and  swept  with  them  over  the  hill,  where 
the  sounds  of  shots  were  growing  fainter — evidently 
a  retreat  and  a  chase — toward  which  they  rode 
blindly. 

Through  all  of  it  their  chief  of  scouts  slept  uncon 
cernedly;  a  solid  ten  hours  of  rest  was  taken  posses- 


302  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

sion  of  before  he  aroused  himself  to  care  whether  it 
was  daylight  or  darkness. 

"Major  come  yet?"  was  the  first  query. 

"No." 

"Am  I  still  under  arrest?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  bring  me  something  to  eat.     Past  chuck?" 

On  being  informed  that  the  midday  meal  had  been 
ended  two  hours  before,  his  next  query  was  whether 
anyone  from  the  ranch  had  been  to  camp;  but  the 
guard  thought  not— a  reply  most  grateful  to  the  pris 
oner. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  something  about  the  horses 
being  run  off,"  he  suggested.  "Oh,  yes,  I  reckon  I'm 
supposed  to  know  all  about  it,"  he  added;  "but,  just 
to  pass  the  time,  suppose  you  tell  me  your  side  of 
it." 

There  was  not  much  to  tell.  Hardy's  men  had 
been  riding  around  after  stray  stock  until  late;  had 
passed  camp  after  ten  o'clock.  About  one  in  the  morn 
ing  the  snow  was  falling  thick;  a  little  racket  was  heard 
in  the  long  shed  where  the  horses  were  tied,  and  the 
sentry,  thinking  some  of  Hardy's  stray  stock  had  wan 
dered  in  there,  tramped  around  with  a  light  to  see 
what  was  wrong.  He  had  barely  reached  the  end  of 
the  corral  when  someone  from  behind  struck  him 
over  the  head.  In  falling,  his  gun  was  discharged; 
and  when  investigations  were  made,  it  was  found  that 
nearly  half  the  horses,  about  forty  head,  had  been 
quietly  run  off  through  the  snow,  and  the  exploded 
gun  was  all  that  saved  the  rest. 

The  trail  was  hot,  and  pursuit  began,  but  the  thieves 
evidently  knew  the  country,  while  the  troops  did  not; 
and  every  moment  lost  in  consultation  and  conjecture 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  HORSE-THIEF.  303 

was  gained  by  the  people  ahead,  until  the  wind  rose 
and  the  trail  was  buried  in  the  snow. 

The  followers  had  only  returned  to  camp  a  few  minutes 
before  Genesee  was  reported  back;  but  the  man  sur 
mised  that  if  the  troops  did  not  get  the  horses,  they 
were  taking  their  pay  out  of  the  hides  of  the  red-skins. 
"How's  that?"  demanded  Genesee,  with  the  quick, 
perplexed  frown  that  was  as  much  anxiety  as  dis 
pleasure. 

"Well,  a  young  cub  of  a  Siwash  came  a-riding  along 
to  camp  about  noon,  as  large  as  life  and  independent 
as  a  hog  on  ice,  and  Denny  Claflin— you  know  him, 
his  horse  was  roped  in  by  them  last  night— well,  he 
called  the  buck  to  halt,  as  he'd  a  perfect  right  to' do, 
and  got  no  more  notice  than  if  the  wind  had  whistled. 
Denny  hates  an  Injun  as  the  devil  does  holy  water, 
and  being  naturally  riled  over  last  night,  he  called  to 
halt,  or  he'd  fire.  Well,  Mr.  Siwash  never  turned  his 
head,  and  Denny  let  him  have  it." 
"Killed  him?" 

"Dead  as  a  door-nail.  Right  over  the  ridge  north. 
Our  boys  were  just  coming  in,  after  skirmishing  for 
signs  from  last  night.  They  heard  the  shot,  and  rode 
up;  and  then,  almost  before  they  saw  them,  some 
ambushed  Injuns  burst  out  on  them  like  all-possessed. 
They'd  come  with  the  young  one,  who  was  sent  ahead, 
you  see.  Well,  there  was  a  go-as-you-please  fight,  I 
guess,  till  our  men  got  out  from  camp,  and  chased 
them  so  far  they  haven't  showed  up  since.  Some  of 
us  went  out  afoot  to  the  ridge,  and  found  the  dead 
buck.  We  buried  him  up  there,  and  have  been  keeping 
an  eye  open  for  the  boys  ever  since." 
"Did  Captain  Holt  go?" 
"You  bet!  and  every  other  man  that  had  a  horse 


304  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

to  go  on;  even  that  Mr.  Stuart  and  Hardy  from  the 
ranch  went." 

"And  they  haven't  showed  up?" 

"Naw." 

No  more  questions  were  asked,  and  the  guard  betook 
himself  to  his  pipe  and  enjoyment  of  the  warm  room, 
for  intense  cold  had  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 
snow. 

And  the  prisoner?  The  man  on  watch  eyed  dubi 
ously  the  dark  face  as  it  lounged  on  the  bunk.  Aroused 
and  refreshed  by  rest,  he  drifted  away  from  the  remem 
brance  of  his  prison  by  living  over  with  tender  eyes 
the  victory  of  the  night  before.  Once  he  had  seen  it 
was  possible  for  her  to  care  for  him — that  once  of  a 
year  ago,  before  she  knew  what  he  was;  but  lately — 
well,  he  thought  her  a  plucky,  cool-headed  girl,  who 
wouldn't  go  back  on  a  friend,  and  her  stanchness  had 
shown  that;  but  the  very  frank  and  outspoken  showing 
had  taken  from  him  any  hope  of  the  warmer  feeling 
that  had  existed  in  the  old  days,  when  she  had  likened 
him  to  a  Launcelot  in  buckskin.  The  hope?  His 
teeth  set  viciously  as  he  thought  of  it  as  a  hope.  What 
right  had  he  for  such  a  wish?  What  right  had  he 
to  let  go  of  himself  as  he  had  done,  and  show  her  how 
his  life  was  bound  up  in  hers  ?  What  a  hopeless  tangle 
it  was;  and  if  she  cared  for  him,  it  meant  plainly  enough 
that  he  was  to  repay  her  by  communicating  its  hope 
lessness  to  her. 

If  she  cared!  In  the  prosaic  light  of  day  he  even 
attempted  to  tell  himself  that  the  victory  of  the  night 
might  have  been  in  part  a  delusion;  that  she  had  pitied 
him  and  the  passion  she  had  raised,  and  so  had  stooped 
from  the  saddle.  Might  it  not  have  been  only 
that?  His  reason  told  him — perhaps;  and  then  all  the 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL  HORSE-THIEF.  305 

wild  unreason  in  the  man  turned  rebel,  and  the  force 
of  a  tumultuous  instinct  arose  and  took  possession  of 
him — of  her,  for  it  gave  her  again  into  his  arms,  and 
the  laws  of  people  were  as  nothing.  She  was  his  by 
her  own  gift;  the  rest  of  the  world  was  blotted  out. 


20 


306  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  III. 
"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES." 

At  the  ranch  a  strange  cloak  of  silence  hung  around 
the  household  in  regard  to  the  horse-stealing.  The 
men,  hearing  of  the  night  raid,  had  endeavored  to  keep 
it  from  the  women  for  fear  of  giving  them  uneasiness, 
but  had  not  altogether  succeeded.  Jim  had  frustrated 
that  attempt  by  forgetting,  and  blurting  out  at  the 
dinner  table  something  about  Genesee's  arrest. 

"It  isn't  true;  it  can't  be  true!"  and  Rachel  turned 
with  such  an  appeal  in  her  tired  eyes  that  Andrews 
dropped  his  own. 

"It's  true,  Miss;  he's  accused  of  knowin'  all  about  it, 
even  if  he  didn't  help.  It's  supposed  to  be  his  Koo- 
tenai  friends  that  did  it,  and  they  say  he's  mighty  close- 
mouthed  over  it ;  that  tells  against  him.  I  hope  to  God 
it  ain't  true,  for  he  seemed  a  mighty  good  man;  but 
he's  under  guard  at  the  camp;  won't  allow  folks  to  see 
him,  I  hear — leastwise,  no  Injuns." 

Rachel  glanced  at  the  others,  but  found  in  their  faces 
no  strong  partisanship  for  Genesee.  Tillie  and  Fred 
were  regretful,  but  not  hopeful. 

"It  seems  a  shame  that  such  a  fine-looking  fellow 
should  be  a  squaw  man,"  said  the  Major's  daughter; 
"but  since  he  is  one,  there  is  not  much  to  be  hoped  of 
him,  though  papa  did  have  a  wonderful  lot  of  faith  in 
this  one." 

Rachel's  eyes  lightened  at  the  words."  What  day 
do  they  look  for  your  father  back?"  she  asked  quickly. 


"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES."  307 

"To-day  or  to-morrow,  though  this  snow  may  hinder 
them  some," 

"Well,  he  can't  get  here  any  too  soon,"  chipped  in 
the  loquacious  Jim.  "I  reckon  they — " 

Then  his  discourse  was  cut  short  by  the  toe  of  Andrews' 
boot  under  the  table.  Although  the  horse-stealing 
was  known  at  the  ranch,  and  now  the  suspicion  of 
Genesee,  yet  there  was  one  thing  that  Andrews  and 
Ivans  had  maneuvered  to  keep  quiet,  and  that  was 
the  absence  of  Hardy  and  Stuart,  and  the  fact  that 
hostile  Indians  had  descended  from  the  hills. 

Apocryphal  stories  had  been  told  Tillie  of  an  early 
supper  her  husband  and  guest  had  eaten  at  camp,  and 
a  ride  they  had  taken  after  stock  overlooked  the  night 
before;  and  the  hours  dragged  on,  the  night  came,  and 
the  two  conspirators  were  gaining  themselves  the 
serious  anxiety  they  had  endeavored  to  shield  the 
women  from,  and  Jim,  once  outside  the  door,  was 
threatened  with  instant  annihilation  if  he  let  his  tongue 
run  so  far  ahead  of  his  wit  again. 

The  ladies  had  decided  not  to  tell  Rachel  about 
Genesee — Tillie  had  so  clear  a  remembrance  of  her 
stubborn  friendliness  for  that  outlaw;  but  Jim  had 
settled  the  question  of  silence,  and  all  the  weariness 
dropped  from  her  at  thought  of  what  that  accusation 
meant  to  him — death.  Once  she  got  up  with  the  strong 
light  of  hope  in  her  eyes,  and  mnning  across  the  snow 
in  the  dark,  opened  the  door  of  the  stable  where  Jim 
was  bedding  the  horses. 

"Jim!"  she  called  sharply;  "when  was  it  the  stock 
was  run  off  from  camp— what  time?" 

"Early  this  mornin',"  answered  that  youth  sulkily. 
He  had  just  received  the  emphatic  warning  against 
"tattling." 


308  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"This  morning?     What  time  this  morning?" 

"Oh,  early;  afore  daylight." 

Before  daylight!  She  had  gained  a  wild  hope  that 
it  was  during  the  time  they  were  together;  but  from 
Jim's  vague  suggestion  they  had  returned  just  about 
the  time  it  had  occurred — in  time  for  it.  She  turned 
hopelessly  toward  the  house,  then  hesitated  and  came 
back. 

"Jim." 

"Well?" 

"Is  Mowitza  here?" 

"Yes,  can't  you  see?" 

But  she  could  not  see  very  clearly.  Something  in 
her  eyes  blinded  her  as  she  thought  of  Mowitza  and 
the  glad  days  when  they  knew  each  other  first;  and  of 
Mowitza's  master,  and  his  voice  as  she  had  heard  it 
last — and  the  words!  Oh,  the  despairing,  exultant, 
compelling  words!  And  then,  after  he  had  gone  from 
her,  could  it  be  so? 

"Take  good  care  of  the  mare,  Jim,  until — until  he 
needs  her." 

When  the  girl  re-entered  the  house,  Tillie  turned 
with  a  lecture  to  deliver  on  the  idiocy  of  going  out 
without  a  wrap;  it  was  not  spoken,  for  a  glance 
into  Rachel's  eyes  told  she  had  been  crying — something 
so  unusual  as  to  awe  the  little  woman  into  silence,  and 
perplex  her  mightily.  Headstrong  as  the  girl  had  been 
in  her  championship  of  Genesee,  Tillie  had  always  been 
very  sure  that  the  cause  was  mainly  Rachel's  contrari 
ness;  and  to  associate  him  with  the  tears  never  entered 
her  mind. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  about  the  fire  there 
were  conjectures  about  the  protracted  stay  of  Hardy 
and  Stuart,  and  wonderment  from  Fred  that  not  a  man 


"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES.'  309 

had  called  from  the  camp  all  day  and  evening.  Rachel 
sat  silent,  thinking — thinking,  and  finding  a  glimmer 
of  hope  in  the  thought  that  Major  Dreyer  would  soon 
be  back;  there,  she  felt,  would  be  no  prejudiced  mind 
come  to  judgment. 

At  last  they  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  step 
on  the  porch,  and  all  looked  around,  glad  of  the  return 
of  the  two  wanderers,  when  the  door  opened,  and  there 
entered  Kalitan  —  a  very  tired-looking  Arrow,  and 
with  something  in  his  face  that  was  more  than  fatigue 
— anxiety. 

"Rashell  Hardy?"  he  said,  and  deliberately  walked 
into  the  other  room,  intimating  that  she  was  to  fol 
low  and  the  interview  to  be  private — an  interview 
conducted  in  low  tones  and  in  Chinook,  after  which 
Rachel  asked  Aunty  Luce  to  give  him  some  supper; 
for  he  was  very  tired,  and  would  not  go  on  to  camp 
until  morning. 

The  night  before  had  been  one  of  wakefulness,  be 
cause  of  Rachel's  absence,  and  all  were  sleepy  enough 
to  hunt  beds  early;  and  leaving  a  lunch  on  the  table 
for  the  absent  ones,  the  hearth  was  soon  deserted- 
Ivans  and  Andrews,  however,  agreeing  to  sleep  with 
one  eye  open. 

Both  must  have  closed  unawares,  or  else  the  mocca- 
sined  feet  that  stole  out  in  the  darkness  must  have 
been  very,  very  light,  and  the  other  figure  beside  him 
very  stealthy;  for  no  alarm  was  given,  no  ear  took 
note.  It  was  late,  past  eleven  o'clock,  when  the 
sentry  challenged  a  horse  and  rider  coming  as 
briskly  and  nonchalantly  into  camp  as  if  it  had  been 
eleven  in  the  morning,  and  occasioning  as  much  aston 
ishment  as  had  Genesee,  when  it  was  seen  to  be  Miss 
Hardy. 


310  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Rather  late  to  be  out  alone,  Miss,  ain't  it?"  asked 
the  sentry,  as  she  stopped  to  chat  with  him  of  the 
continued  absence  of  the  men. 

"Is  it?"  she  laughed.  "I  don't  know  what  you  call 
late  over  here;  but  I  suppose  we  of  the  ranch  would 
be  considered  night-owls.  I  rode  over  with  some  mail 
that  came  late,  and  thought  I'd  hear  if  there  was  any 
news  before  we  went  to  bed.  Who's  in  command?" 

"Lieutenant  Kennedy;  but  he  turned  in  an  hour 
ago." 

"Good  gracious!  Do  you  folks  go  to  bed  with  the 
sun?  I  have  a  magazine  for  him,  but  he  can  wait  for 
it,  then,  until  to-morrow.  Tell  him  I  will  expect  him 
over." 

"Yes,  Miss." 

Just  then  from  along  the  avenue  sauntered  a  soldierly 
figure,  who  drew  near  at  the  sound  of  voices. 

"There  comes  Sergeant  Kelp,"  remarked  the  sentry. 
"He's  on  night  duty  in  Kennedy's  place." 

Instantly  the  girl  turned  to  the  officer  in  charge. 
"Well,  I'm  glad  to  find  someone  up  and  awake," 
she  said,  leaning  over  to  shake  hands  with  him.  "It 
helps  to  keep  me  from  seeming  altogether  a  night- 
prowler.  I  came  over  to  get  the  returns,  if  there  were 
any.  The  folks  are  getting  anxious  at  the  ranch." 

"Naturally,"  answered  the  young  fellow.  "I  would 
have  called  this  evening,  but  am  on  duty.  Don't 
let  the  ladies  worry  if  you  can  help  it.  We  are  likely 
to  hear  from  the  men  before  morning.  Every  scout  we 
had  went  with  them,  and  without  horses  we  can't  do 
much  but  just  stay  here  and  wait;  all  the  boys  find 
it  mighty  hard  work,  too." 

"You  remind  me  of  half  my  mission,  Sergeant,  when 
you  speak  of  your  scouts.  I  brought  over  some  mail, 


"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES."  311 

and  everyone  I  wanted  to  see  is  either  away  or  asleep. 
How  about  your  chief  of  scouts  — is  he  asleep, 
too?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  her  heart  ceased  beating, 
the  wind  ceased  blowing,  and  the  stars  ceased  twink 
ling  above  the  snow,  as  she  waited  for  his  disgusted 
reply. 

"No;  not  by  a  good  deal.  I  never  saw  such  a  crank 
as  that  fellow!  When  everything  was  smooth  sail 
ing,  that  man  would  skulk  around  camp  without  a 
word  to  speak  to  anyone,  the  surliest  white  man  I 
want  to  see;  but  now  that  he's  jailed  for  horse-stealing, 
tied  up  and  watched  in  the  shack,  I'm  blest  if  he 
doesn't  put  in  the  time  singing.  Yes,  he  does;  been 
at  it  ever  since  taps.  I  threatened  to  have  him  gagged 
if  he  disturbed  the  boys ;  but  they  say  he  don't.  Roberts 
is  the  only  one  who  has  to  listen  to  it;  says  he  never 
heard  so  many  Indian  songs  in  his  life.  But  it's 
a  mighty  queer  streak  of  luck  for  a  man  to  be  musical 
over." 

Rachel  laughed,  and  agreed.  "I  have  a  letter  for 
him,  too,"  she  added.  "Look,  here;  I'd  like  to  take  it 
to  him  myself,  and  get  to  hear  some  of  those  songs.  Can 
I?  I  know  it's  rather  late,  but  if  he  is  awake,  it  doesn't 
matter,  I  suppose;  or  is  no  one  allowed  to  see  him?" 

"Indians  only  are  tabooed,  but  none  of  them  have 
shown  up,  not  even  his  runner,  and  I  guess  you  can 
speak  to  him  if  you  want  to;  it  isn't  a  thing  most  ladies 
would  like  to  do,  though,"  he  added. 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  said  good-humoredly ;  "but 
then,  I've  known  the  man  for  something  over  a  year, 
and  am  not  at  all  afraid — in  fact,  I'd  rather  like  to 
do  it  and  have  something  to  horrify  the  ladies  at  the 
ranch  with.  Think  of  it!  An  interview  with  a  horse- 


312  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

thief — perhaps  a  duet  with  him  all  alone  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  Oh,  yes,  that's  too  good  to  miss.  But 
I  must  hurry  up,  or  they  will  be  sending  someone 
after  me." 

At  the  door  of  the  shack,  however,  she  paused  a 
moment  in  what  might  be  trepidation,  her  hand  laid 
hesitatingly  on  the  saddle,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to 
remount  or  enter  the  shanty,  from  which  she  could 
hear  the  low  refrain  of  a  song  of  their  cultus  corrie — 
"Tsolo,  tso-lol" 

"The  guard  will  not  leave  the  door?"  she  whispered; 
and  Sergeant  Kelp  concluded  that,  after  all,  she  was 
pretending  to  greater  nerve  than  she  possessed. 

"Never  fear,"  he  returned;  "I  will  call  him  out  to 
hold  your  horse,  and  he  won't  stir  from  the  door.  By 
the  way,  I'll  have  someone  to  see  you  home  when  you're 
ready  to  go.  Good-night." 

Thent  he  guard  was  called  out,  and  a  moment  later 
the  visitor  slipped  in,  the  prisoner  never  turning  his  head 
or  noticing  the  exchange  until  she  spoke. 

"Jack!" 

He  turned  quickly  enough. 

"God  A 'mighty,  girl!  What  are  you  doing 
here  ? ? ' 

She  thought  of  the  ears,  possibly  listening  ears,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door,  and  her  tone  was  guarded 
and  careless,  as  it  had  been  with  the  Sergeant,  as  she 
laughed  and  answered  in  Chinook: 

"To  pay  a  visit;  what  else?" 

She  noticed  with  exultation  that  it  was  only  rope 
he  was  tied  with — his  hands  and  his  feet,  as  he  sat 
on  the  bunk — a  plaited  rope  of  rawhide;  strong  enough 
when  strengthened  by  a  guard  opposite  and  a  loaded 
gun;  but  without  the  guard  and  with  a  keen  knife! 


"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES."  313 

She  checked  him  in  the  midst  of  a  passionate  protest 
against  her  coming. 

"I  am  here,  so  that  fact  is  settled,"  she  said  quietly. 
"I  didn't  come  for  fun,  and  we  haven't  any  time 
to  lose.  I  brought  you  a  letter;  it  is  in  this/* 
she  said. 

"You  have  seen  Kalitan?" 

He  took  from  her  the  rubber  case  and  extracted  the 
letter  from  it,  but  scarcely  noticed  it,  his  eyes  were 
turned  so  anxiously  to  her  face. 

"Yes;  and  you  had  better  read  it,"  she  advised, 
walking  back  to  the  door. 

"Rachel—" 

"Read  it;  let  them  see  you!"  and  she  opened  the 
door  wide  and  stepped  out  as  if  to  make  sure  of  the 
guard's  presence. 

"It's  all  right,  Miss,  I'm  here,"  he  whispered,  looking 
past  her  to  the  prisoner  opening  the  letter  and  throw 
ing  the  envelope  in  the  fire.  "I'll  not  stir  from  here 
with  the  beast.  Don't  be  uneasy;"  and  then  she 
turned  back  and  closed  the  door.  She  had  seen  he  was 
not  close  enough  to  listen. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  him,  "you  must 
get  out  of  this.  Mowitza  is  at  the  door;  I  have  brought 
the  things  you  will  need.  Can  you  make  a  dash  for  it 
and  get  away?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  utter  amazement. 

"I  didn't  know  it  until  to-night,"  she  continued; 
"this  is  your  chance,  before  the  others  get  back — if 
they  ever  do  get  back!  God  help  them!" 

"What  do  you  mean?  Where  are  they?"  And  his 
hand,  tied  as  it  was,  caught  her  own  quickly. 

"They  are  in  a  death-trap,  in  that  gully  back  of  the 
Tamahnous  ground.  You  know  where — right  over  the 


314  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS 

peak  from  the  old  mine.  They've  been  there  since 
dark,  hedged  in  by  the  Kootenais,  who  are  only  waiting 
for  daylight  to  come.  Heaven  help  our  men  when  it 
does  cornel" 

"The  Kootenais?     It  can't  be  them.     They  are  not 
hostile." 

"Not  yesterday,"  she  agreed  bitterly,  "but  they  are 
to-day.  They  sent  a  messenger  of  good-will  to  camp 
this  morning,  the  grandson  of  Grey  Eagle.  He  was 
shot  down,  almost  in  sight  of  camp,  by  one  of  the 
soldiers,  and  the  braves  he  had  brought,  the  best  in 
the  tribe,  attempted  a  rescue.  Our  cavalry  pursued 
them,  and  were  led  into  that  ravine.  The  Indians 
knew  the  ground,  and  our  men  didn't.  At  the  end  of 
the  narrow  pass,  the  reds  rolled  boulders  down  the 
mountain  and  closed  it  up,  and  then  cut  off  retreat; 
and  there  they  are,  waiting  for  daylight  or  starvation 
— God  knows  what ! ' ' 
"Who  told  you  this?" 

"Kalitan;  he  met  an  Indian  trapper  who  had  passed 
the  gulch  but  a  little  while  before.  He  came  directly 
to  me.  The  whites  here  blame  you  for  helping  the 
trouble — the  beginning  it,  the — " 

"You  mean  the  horse  stealing?"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  curiously. 

"Yes."  Her  eyes  were  on  the  floor;  she  did  not  see 
that  scrutiny.  "And  you  must  get  out  of  here  before 
word  comes  of  those  men  penned  up  there.  There 
would  be  no  waiting  for  trial  then;  they  would  shoot 
you." 

"And  that  is  what  you  came  for?" 
"Yes;"  and  she  drew  a  sharp  knife— an  Indian  knife 
-from  her  belt  under  the  shawl.     With  a  quick  stroke 
she  severed  the  knotted  cords  and  they  fell  from  his 


"THE  SQUAW  WHO  RIDES."  315 

wrists;  then  she  dropped  on  her  knees,  a  flash,  once, 
twice,  of  the  blade  in  the  light,  and  he  stooped  and 
raised  her. 

"You  are  doing  this  for  me,"  he  said,  drawing  her 
to  him,  "without  knowing  whether  I  deserve  shooting 
or  not  ? ' ' 

"Don't  speak  of  that  part  of  it!"  she  burst  out. 
"When  I  let  myself  think,  I  feel  as  if  I  am  going  crazy! " 
—then  she  stopped  short.  "And  a  crazy  woman  just 
now  would  handicap  you  some.  No,  Jack,  we  need  all 
of  our  wits  for  to-night — here,"  and  unfastening  the 
belt  from  under  her  shawl,  she  buckled  it  about  him. 
It  contained  two  loaded  revolvers. 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  armed  you  as  I've  seen  sweet 
hearts  or  wives  do,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him.  "It 
may  be  the  last.  I  only  ask  one  thing — you  will  not, 
unless  it  is  the  last  means  of  saving  your  own  life,  turn 
one  of  these  against  my  friends?" 

Even  then,  the  weakness  of  the  man  in  him  came 
uppermost. 

' '  But  if  it  is  to  save  my  own  life  ? ' ' 

Her  b";nds  went  quickly  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  sight  or  thought. 

"Don't  ask  me — only  go — and — take  care  of  yourself!" 

He  caught  the  hands  from  her  eyes,  kissing  her 
fiercely — exultantly. 

' '  Then  I  am  first  to  you — nearer  than  all  the  rest !  My 
girl,  you've  proved  it  to-night,  and  I'll  show  you!  If 
you  know  how  to  pray,  pray  for  me  to-night — for  me 
and  the  men  in  that  death-trap.  Do  you  hear?  I 
am  going  now.  Here  is  this  letter;  it  will  tell  you 
all.  If  I  never  come  back,  tell  Prince  Charlie  he  is 
right  at  last — that  I  believe  him.  He  will  under 
stand.  My  girl — mine — it  is  not  an  eternal  good-bye. 


316  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

I  will  come  back  if  I  live,  and  I  will  have  to  live  long 
enough  for  that!  Here,  just  once,  kiss  me,  my  girl— 
my  girl!" 

The  next  instant  she  was  flung  from  that  embrace 
and  fell  with  a  faint  scream  to  the  floor. 

The  guard  dashed  in,  and  was  dextrously  tripped  by 
an  unlooked-for  figure  close  to  the  wall,  his  gun  wrenched 
from  him,  and  a  staggering  blow  dealt  that  sent  him  to 
his  knees. 

Clouds  had  swept  over  the  cold  stars,  and  the  sentry 
could  see  but  dimly  the  equestrian  figure  that  came 
clattering  down  the  avenue. 

" Hadn't  you  better  wait  for  company,  Miss?"  he 
called,  but  no  answer  was  given;  and  in  much  wonder, 
he  was  about  to  call  again,  when  pistol-shots  from  the 
shack  aroused  the  camp.  He  called  a  halt;  that  was 
heeded  no  more  than  his  question,  and  he  sent  a  ran 
dom  shot  after  the  flying  figure— not  for  the  purpose 
of  hitting  the  girl,  but  to  impress  on  her  the  duty  of 
a  sentry  and  some  idea  of  military  rule.  Before 
the  last  dull  thud  of  hoofs  in  the  snow  had  ceased 
to  be  heard,  Roberts  had  staggered  to  the  door, 
firing  wildly,  and  calling  to  stop  the  prisoner— to  stop 
the  horse-thief. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  camp  to  do  it  with.  He 
was  gone — everyone  was  blaming  everybody  else  for 
it;  but  no  one  thought  of  blaming  the  girl  who  lay  in 
a  dead  faint  on  the  floor,  where  he  had  flung  her,  that 
none  might  think  she  had  let  him  go  willingly.  And 
Miss  Rachel  was  cared  for  very  tenderly,  and  a  man 
was  sent  to  the  ranch  to  assure  Mrs.  Hardy  of  her  safe 
keeping,  waking  Mrs.  Hardy  out  of  a  delicious  sleep, 
and  mystifying  her  completely  by  the  information. 
The  only  one  about  the  house  who  might  have  helped 


Dealt  him  a  staggering  blow  that  sent  him  to  his  knees.     Page  316. 


318  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THROUGH    THE    LOST    MINE. 

An  hour  before  day  in  the  Kootenais!  Not  the 
musical  dawn  of  that  early  autumn,  when  all  the  woods 
were  a-quiver  with  the  fullness  of  color  and  sound; 
when  the  birds  called  to  each  other  of  the  coming  sun, 
and  the  little  rills  of  the  shady  places  moistened  the 
sweet  fern  and  spread  its  fragrance  around  and  about, 
until  one  could  find  no  couch  so  seductive  as  one  on 
the  amber  grasses  with  the  rare,  all-pervading  scents 
of  the  virgin  soil. 

Not  any  of  those  seductions  solaced  or  made  more 
bitter  the  watch  of  the  men  who  stood  hopeless  in  the 
snow  of  that  treacherous  ravine.  Not  even  a  fire  dared 
be  lit  all  the  night  long,  because  of  those  suddenly 
murderous  natives,  who,  through  knowing  the  secrets 
of  the  cleft  earth,  held  their  fates  at  the  mercy  of  eager 
bronze  hands. 

"And  one  man  who  knew  the  country  could  have 
prevented  this!"  groaned  Hardy,  with  a  thought  of  the 
little  wife  and  Miss  Margaret.  How  would  they  listen 
to  this  story  ? 

"If  we  had  Genesee  with  us,  we  should  not  have  been 
penned  up  in  any  such  fashion  as  this,"  decided  Mur 
ray,  stamping  back  and  forward,  as  many  others  were 
doing,  to  keep  their  blood  in  circulation — for  what? 

"Hard  to  tell,"  chimed  in  the  scout  from  Idaho. 
"Don't  know  as  it's  any  better  to  be  tricked  by  one's 
own  gang  than  the  hostiles.  Genesee,  more'n  likely, 
was  gettin'  ready  for  this  when  he  run  off  the  stock." 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  319 

Just  then  something  struck  him.  The  snow  made 
a  soft  bed,  but  the  assailant  had  not  stopped  to  con 
sider  that,  and  quick  as  light  his  knee  was  on  the  fallen 
man's  chest. 

"Take  it  back!"  he  commanded,  with  the  icy  muz 
zle  of  a  revolver  persuading  his  meaning  into  the  brain 
of  the  surprised  scout.  "That  man  is  no  horse-thief. 
Take  it  back,  or  I'll  save  the  Indians  the  trouble  of 
wasting  lead  on  you." 

"Well,"  reasoned  the  philosopher  in  the  snow,  "this 
ain't  the  damnedest  best  place  I've  ever  been  in  for 
arguin'  a  point,  an'  as  you  have  fightin'  ideas  on  the 
question,  an'  I  haven't  any  ideas,  an'  don't  care  a  hell 
of  a  sight,  I'll  eat  my  words  for  the  time  bein',  and 
we'll  settle  the  question  o'  that  knock  on  the  head,  if 
the  chance  is  ever  given  us  to  settle  anything,  out  o' 
this  gully." 

"What's  this?"  and  though  only  outlines  of  figures 
could  be  distinguished,  the  voice  was  the  authoritative 
one  of  Captain  Holt.  "Mr.  Stuart,  I  am  surprised  to 
find  you  in  this  sort  of  thing,  and  about  that  squaw 
man  back  in  camp.  Find  something  better  to  waste 
your  strength  for.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  now 
of  the  man's  complicity— 

"Stop  it!"  broke  in  Stuart  curtly;  "you  can  hold 
what  opinion  you  please  of  him,  but  you  can't  tell  me 
he's  a  horse-thief.  A  squaw  man  and  adopted  Indian 
he  may  be  and  altogether  an  outlaw  in  your  eyes;  but 
I  doubt  much  your  fitness  to  judge  him,  and  advise  you 
not  to  call  him  a  thief  until  you  are  able  to  prove  your 
words,  or  willing  to  back  them  with  all  we've  got  left 
here." 

All  they  had  left  was  their  lives,  and  Stuart's  unex 
pected  recklessness  and  sharp  words  told  them  his  was 


320  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

ready  as  a  pledge  to  his  speech.  None  cared,  at  that 
stage  of  the  game,  to  question  why.  It  was  no  time 
for  quarrels  among  themselves  when  each  felt  that 
with  the  daylight  might  come  death. 

Afterward,  when  the  tale  was  told,  no  man  could 
remember  which  of  them  first  discovered  a  form  in 
their  midst  that  had  not  been  with  them  on  their  entrance 
• — a  breathless,  panting  figure,  that  leaned  against  one 
of  their  horses. 

"Who  is  it?''  someone  asked. 

"What  is  it?" 

No  one  answered — only  pressed  closer,  with  fingers 
on  triggers,  fearing  treachery.  And  then  the  panting 
figure  raised  itself  from  its  rest  on  the  horse's  neck,  rose 
to  a  stature  not  easily  mistaken,  even  in  that  light,  and 
a  familiar,  surly  voice  spoke : 

"I  don't  reckon  any  of  you  need  be  puzzled  much 
to  find  out;  hasn't  been  such  a  long  time  since  you  saw 
me." 

"By  God,  it'sGenesee!" 

And  despite  the  wholesale  condemnation  of  the  man, 
there  was  not  a  heart  that  did  not  grow  lighter  with  the 
knowledge.  They  knew,  or  believed,  that  here  was 
the  one  man  who  had  the  power  to  save  them,  if  he  cared 
to  use  it ;  but  would  he  ? 

"Jack!" 

Someone,  at  sound  of  his  voice,  pushed  through  the 
crowd  with  outstretched  hand.  It  was  not  refused  this 
time. 

"I've  come  for  you,"  was  all  Genesee  said;  then  he 
turned  to  the  others. 

"Are  you  willing  to  follow  me?"  he  asked,  raising 
his  voice  a  little.  "The  horses  can't  go  through  where 
I've  got  to  take  you;  you'll  have  to  leave  them." 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  321 

A  voice  close  to  his  elbow  put  in  a  word  of  expostu 
lation  against  the  desertion  of  the  horses.  Genesee 
turned  on  the  speaker  with  an  oath. 

"You  may  command  in  a  quiet  camp,  but  we're  out 
side  of  it  now,  and  I  put  just  a  little  less  value  on  your 
opinion  than  on  any  man's  in  the  gulch.  This  is  a 
question  for  every  man  to  answer  for  himself.  You've 
lost  their  lives  for  them  if  they're  kept  here  till  daylight. 
I'll  take  them  out  if  they're  ready  to  come." 

There  was  no  dissenting  voice.  Compared  with  the 
inglorious  death  awaiting  them  in  the  gulch,  the  deliv 
erance  was  a  God-send.  They  did  not  just  see  how  it 
was  to  be  effected;  but  the  strange  certainty  of  hope 
with  which  they  turned  to  the  man  they  had  left  behind 
as  a  horse-thief  was  a  thing  surprising  to  them  all,  when 
they  had  time  to  think  of  it — in  the  dusk  of  the  morning, 
they  had  not. 

He  appeared  among  them  as  if  a  deliverer  had  mate 
rialized  from  the  snow-laden  branches  of  cedar,  or  from 
.the  close-creeping  clouds  of  the  mountain.  They  had 
felt  themselves  touched  by  a  superstitious  thrill  when 
he  was  found  in  their  midst;  but  they  knew  that,  come 
as  he  might,  be  what  he  would,  they  had  in  him  one 
to  whom  the  mountains  were  as  an  open  book,  as  the 
Indians  knew  when  they  tendered  him  the  significant 
name  of  Lamonti. 

Captain  Holt  was  the  only  rebel  on  the  horse  question- 
to  add  those  to  the  spoils  of  the  Indians  was  a  bitter 
thing  for  him  to  do. 

"It  looks  as  if  we  were  not  content  with  them  taking 
half  our  stock,  but  rode  up  here  to  leave  them  the  rest," 
he  said,  aggressively,  to  nobody  in  particular."     I've  a  • 
notion  to  leave  only  the  carcasses." 

"Not  this  morning,"  broke  in  the  scout.     "We've  no 


322  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

time  to  wait  for  work  of  that  sort.  Serves  you  right 
to  lose  them,  too,  for  your  damned  blunders.  Come 
along  if  you  want  to  get  out  of  this — single  file,  and 
keep  quiet." 

It  was  no  time  for  argument  or  military  measures 
for  insubordination;  and  bitter  as  the  statement  of 
inefficiency  was,  Captain  Holt  knew  there  were  some 
grounds  for  it,  and  knew  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the  men, 
he  was  judged  from  the  same  standpoint.  The  blind 
raid  with  green  scouts  did  seem,  looking  back  at  it, 
like  a  headlong  piece  of  folly.  How  much  of  folly  the 
whole  attack  was,  they  did  not  as  yet  realize. 

It  was  not  far  that  Genesee  led  them  through  the 
stunted,  gnarled  growth  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  gulch. 
Half-way  to  the  top  there  were,  in  the  summer-time, 
green  grass  and  low  brush  in  which  the  small  game 
could  hide;  but  above  that  rose  a  sheer  wall  of  rock 
clear  up  to  where  the  soil  had  gathered  and  the  pines 
taken  root. 

In  the  dusk  they  could  see  no  way  of  surmounting 
it ;  yet  there  was  no  word  of  demur,  not  even  a  question. 
He  was  simply  their  hope,  and  they  followed  him. 

And  their  guide  felt  it.  He  knew  few  of  them  liked 
him  personally,  and  it  made  his  victory  the  greater; 
but  even  above  that  was  the  thought  that  his  freedom 
was  due  to  the  girl  who  never  guessed  how  he  should 
use  it. 

He  felt,  some  way,  as  if  he  must  account  to  her  for 
every  act  she  had  given  him  the  power  to  perform,  as 
if  his  life  itself  belonged  to  her,  and  the  sweetness  of 
the  thought  was  with  him  in  every  step  of  the  night 
ride,  in  every  plan  for  the  delivery  of  the  men. 

At  the  very  foot  of  the  rock  wall  he  stopped  and 
turned  to  the  man  next  him.  It  was  Hardy. 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  323 

"It's  a  case  of  'crawl'  here  for  a  few  lengths;  pass 
the  word  along,  and  look  out  for  your  heads." 

The  next  instant  he  had  vanished  under  the  rock  wall 
— Hardy  following  him;  then  a  flicker  of  light  shone 
like  a  star  as  a  guide  for  the  others,  and  in  five  minutes 
every  man  of  them  had  wriggled  through  what  seemed 
but  a  slit  in  the  solid  front. 

"A  regular  cave,  by  hooky! "  said  the  moral  guide  from 
Idaho,  as  he  stood  upright  at  last.  His  voice  echoed 
strangely.  "Hooky!  hooky!  hooky!"  sounded  from 
different  points  where  the  shadows  deepened,  suggesting 
endless  additions  to  the  room  where  they  stood. 

Genesee  had  halted  and  was  splitting  up  some  pine 
for  a  torch,  using  the  knife  Rachel  had  cut  his  bonds 
with,  and  showing  that  the  handle  was  stained  with 
blood,  as  were  the  sticks  of  pine  he  was  handling. 

"Look  for  some  more  sticks  around  here,  and  lend 
a  hand,"  he  said.  "We  need  more  than  one  torch.  I 
burnt  up  what  I  had  in  working  through  that  hole. 
I've  been  at  it  for  three  hours,  I  reckon,  without  know 
ing,  till  I  got  the  last  stone  away,  whether  I'd  be  in  time 
or  find  daylight  on  the  other  side." 

"And  is  that  what  cut  your  hands?"  asked  Lieutenant 
Murray.  "Why,  they're  a  sight!  For  heaven's  sake, 
what  have  you  been  doing?" 

"I  found  a  'cave-in'  of  rock  and  gravel  right  at  the 
end  of  that  tunnel,"  answered  Genesee,  nodding  the 
way  they  had  just  come,  and  drawing  their  notice  to 
fresh  earth  and  broken  stone  thrown  to  the  side.  "I 
had  no  tools  here,  nothing  but  that,"  and  he  motioned 
toward  a  mallet -like  thing  of  stone.  "My  tools  were 
moved  from  the  mine  over  to  Scot's  Mountain  awhile 
back,  and  as  that  truck  had  to  be  hoisted  away,  and  I 
hadn't  time  to  invite  help,  it  had  to  be  done  with  these ; " 


324  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

and  he  held  out  his  hands  that  were  bleeding— a  telling 
witness  of  his  endeavors  to  reach  there  in  time.  And 
every  man  of  them  felt  it. 

There  was  an  impulsive  move  forward,  and  Hardy 
was  the  first  to  hold  out  his  hand.  But  Genesee  stepped 
back,  and  leaned  against  the  wall. 

"That's  all  right,  Hardy,"  he  said,  with  something 
of  his  old  careless  smile.  "I'm  glad  you're  the  first, 
for  the  sake  of  old  times;  but  I  reckon  it  would  be 
playing  it  pretty  low  down  on  a  friend  to  let  him  take 
me  in  on  false  pretenses.  You  see  I  haven't  been 
acquitted  -of  horse -stealing  yet — about  the  most  low 
lived  trade  a  man  can  turn  to,  unless  it  is  sheep  - 
stealing." 

"Oh,  hell!"  broke  in  one  of  the  men,  "this  clears  the 
horse  business  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  and  I  can  bet 
on  the  other  boys,  too!" 

"Can  you?"  asked  Genesee,  with  a  sort  of  elated,  yet 
conservative,  air;  "but  this  isn't  your  game  or  the  boys' 
game.  I'm  playing  a  lone  hand,  and  not  begging 
either.  That  torch  ready?" 

The  rebuff  kept  the  others  from  any  advance,  if  they 
had  thought  of  making  it.  Lieutenant  Murray  had 
picked  up  the  stone  mallet  and  was  examining  it  by  the 
flickering  light;  one  side  was  flattened  a  little,  like  a 
tomahawk. 

"That's  a  queer  affair,"  he  remarked.  "What  did  you 
have  it  made  for?" 

' '  Have  it  made !  The  chances  are  that  thing  was  made 
before  Columbus  ever  managed  a  sail-boat,"  returned 
Genesee.  "I  found  a  lot  of  them  in  here;  wedges,  too, 
and  such." 

"In  here?"  and  the  men  looked  with  a  new  interest 
at  the  rocky  walls.  "What  is  it?" 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  325 

"  An  extension  I  tumbled  into,  over  a  year  back,  when 
I  was  tunneling  at  a  drift  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 
One  day  I  found  that  hole  there,  and  minded  it  this 
morning,  so  it  came  in  handy.  I  reckon  this  is  the 
original  Tamahnous  mine  of  the  old  tribe.  It's  been 
lost  over  a  hundred  years.  The  Kootenais  only  have 
a  tradition  of  it." 

"A  mine— gold?" 

"Well,  I  was  digging  for  a  silver  show  when  I  struck 
it,"  answered  Genesee;  "and,  so  far  as  I  see,  that's  what 
was  here,  but  it's  worked  out.  Didn't  do  much  pros 
pecting  in  it,  as  I  left  the  Kootenai  hills  less  than  a  week 
after.  I  just  filled  up  the  entry,  and  allowed  it  would 
keep  till  I  got  back." 

"Does  it  belong  to  you?"  asked  one  man,  with  specu 
lation  in  his  voice. 

Genesee  laughed.  "I  reckon  so.  Tamahnous  Peak 
is  mine,  and  a  few  feet  of  grazing  land  on  the  east. 
Nobody  grudges  it  to  me  up  this  way.  Indians  think 
it's  haunted,  'cause  all  the  rocks  around  it  give  echoes; 
and  I — " 

He  ceased  speaking  abruptly,  his  eyes  on  the  pile 
of  debris  in  the  corner.  Then  he  lit  a  fresh  torch 
from  the  dying  one,  and  gave  the  word  to  strike  for 
the  outside,  following  single  file,  as  the  hill  was 
pretty  well  honey-combed,  and  it  was  wise  to  be  cau 
tious. 

"Because,"  said  their  leader,  "if  any  should  stray 
off,  we  might  not  have  time  this  day  of  our  Lord  to 
come  back  and  hunt  him  up." 

Before  leaving  what  seemed  like  the  back  entrance, 
he  walked  over  to  the  corner  and  picked  up  the  thing 
that  had  arrested  his  attention  a  minute  before,  and 
slipping  it  in  his  pocket,  walked  to  the  head  of  the 


326  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

long  line  of  men,  several  of  whom  were  wounded,  but 
only  one  less  than  the  number  who  had  left  camp. 
And  the  one  lacking  was  the  man  who  had  fired  the 
first  shot  and  killed  the  messenger  from  Grey  Eagle 
— he  himself  dying  from  a  wound,  after  the  ride  into 
the  gulch. 

As  the  scout  passed  the  men,  a  hand  and  a  pair  of 
gloves  were  thrust  out  to  him  from  a  group ;  and  turning 
his  torch  so  that  the  light  would  show  the  giver,  he  saw 
it  was  Stuart. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  Baid,  with  more  graciousness 
than  most  of  the  men  had  ever  seen  in  him;  "I'll  take 
them  from  you,  as  my  own  are  damaged  some."  They 
were  torn  to  shreds,  and  the  fingers  under  them  worn 
to  the  quick, 

The  echoing  steps  of  the  forty  men  were  as  if  forty 
hundred  were  making  their  way  through  the  mine  of 
the  Tamahnous;  for  no  living  tribe  ever  claimed  it, 
even  by  descent,  The  hill  that  contained  it  had  for 
generations  been  given  by  tradition  to  the  witches  of 
evil,  who  spoke  through  the  rock — a  clever  scheme 
of  those  vanished  workers  to  guard  their  wealth,  or 
the  wealth  they  hoped  to  find ;  but  for  what  use  ?  Neither 
silver  in  coin  nor  vessel  can  be  traced  as  ever  belonging 
to  tribes  of  the  Northern  Indians.  Yet  that  honey 
combed  peak,  with  its  wide  galleries,  its  many  entries, 
and  well-planned  rooms,  bespoke  trained  skill  in  under 
ground  quarrying.  From  some  unseen  source  fresh 
air  sifted  through  the  darkness  to  them,  and  the  tinkle 
of  dripping  water  in  pools  came  to  their  ears,  though 
the  pools  were  shrouded  in  the  darkness  that,  just 
beyond  the  range  of  the  few  torches,  was  intense;  and 
after  the  long  tramp  through  echoing  winds  and  turns, 
the  misty  dawn  that  was  still  early  seemed  dazzling 


Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "Til  take  them  from  you,  as  my  own 
are  damaged  some."     Page  ^26. 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  327 

to  the   eyes,   red  and   haggard  from  the   vigil  of  the 
night. 

"You  will  have  to  get  away  from  here  on  a  double- 
quick,"  said  Genesee  sharply,  after  a  glance  at  the 
sky  and  up  the  sides  of  the  hill  from  which  they  had 
come.  "Once  down  there  in  the  valley,  the  fog  may 
hide  you  till  sun-up,  and  then,  again,  it  mightn't.  Just 
mind  that  they  have  horses." 

"We  are  not  likely  to  forget  it,"  was  Captain  Holt's 
answer;  and  then  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  at 
Genesee. 

"Are  you  not  coming  with  us?"  asked  Lieutenant 
Murray,  giving  voice  to  the  question  in  his  commander's 
mind  as  well  as  the  others. 

"Yes,  part  of  the  way,"  said  the  scout  quietly,  but 
with  a  challenge  to  detention  in  the  slight  pause  with 
which  he  glanced  at  the  group;  "but  I  have  a  beast  to 
carry  me  back,  and  I'm  just  tired  enough  to  use  it." 
And  disappearing  for  a  minute  in  the  brush,  he  led  out 
Mowitza,  and,  mounting  her,  turned  her  head  toward 
the  terraces  of  the  lower  valley. 

They  passed  the  isolated  cabin  that  brought  back 
to  Stuart  a  remembrance  of  where  they  were;  then 
down  the  steps  of  the  Tamahnous  and  along  the  little 
lake,  all  swathed  alike  in  the  snow  and  the  mist  leaving 
null  all  character  in  the  landscape. 

The  cabin  was  commented  on  by  the  men,  to  whom 
it  was  a  surprise,  looming  up  so  close  to  them  through 
the  cloud  curtain. 

"That's  mine,"  their  guide  remarked,  and  one  of 
them,  puzzled,  stated  it  as  his  belief  that  Genesee 
claimed  the  whole  Kootenai  territory. 

The  scout  gave  up  his  saddle  to  a  man  with  a  leg- 
wound,  but  he  did  not  let  go  the  bridle  of  "Mowitza; 


328  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

and  so  they  went  on  with  their  guide  stalking  grimly 
ahead,  ready,  they  all  knew,  to  turn  as  fiercely  against 
them  at  a  sign  of  restraint  as  he  had  worked  for  them, 
if  a  movement  was  made  to  interfere  with  his  further 
liberty. 

The  sun  rolled  up  over  the  purple  horizon — a  great 
body  of  blushes  suffusing  the  mountains;  but  its  chaste 
entrance  had  brazened  into  a  very  steady  stare  before 
it  could  pierce  the  veil  of  the  valleys,  and  pick  out 
the  dots  of  moving  blue  against  the  snow  on  the  home 
trail. 

It  had  been  a  wonderfully  quiet  tramp.  Most  of  the 
thoughts  of  the  party  were  of  the  man  walking  ahead 
of  them,  and  his  nearness  made  the  discussion  of  his 
actions  awkward.  They  did  not  know  what  to  expect 
of  him,  and  a  general  curiosity  prevailed  as  to  what  he 
would  do  next. 

They  learned,  when  at  last  the  ridge  above  camp 
was  reached,  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon.  He 
had  been  talking  some  to  the  man  on  Mowitza,  and 
when  they  reached  that  point  he  stopped. 

"Whereabouts?"  he  asked;  and  the  man  pointed  to 
a  place  where  the  snow  was  colored  by  soil. 

"Over  there!     I  guess  the  boys  buried  him." 

"Well,  you  can  get  down  from  that  saddle  now.  I 
reckon  you  can  walk  down  to  camp;  if  not,  they  can 
carry  you."  Then  he  turned  to  the  rest. 

"There's  a  body  under  that  snow  that  I  want,"  he 
said  sententiously.  "I'm  not  in  condition  for  anymore 
digging,"  and  he  glanced  at  his  hands.  "Are  there  any 
men  among  you  that  will  get  it  out  for  me  ? ' ' 

"You  bet!"  was  the  unhesitating  reply;  and  without 
question,  hands  and  knives  were  turned  to  the  task, 
the  man  on  horseback  watching  them  attentively. 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  329 

"May  I  ask  what  that  is  for?"  asked  Captain  Holt; 
at  last,  as  amiably  as  he  could,  in  the  face  of  being 
ignored  and  affronted  at  every  chance  that  was  given 
Genesee.  He  had  saved  the  commander's  life;  that 
was  an  easy  thing  to  do  compared  with  the  possibility 
of  hiding  his  contempt. 

He  was  openly  and  even  unreasonably  aggressive — one 
of  the  spots  in  his  nature  that  to  a  careless  eye  would 
appear  the  natural  color  of  his  whole  character.  He 
did  not  answer  at  once,  and  Captain  Holt  spoke  again: 

"What  is  the  object  of  digging  up  that  Indian?" 

Then  Genesee  turned  in  the  saddle. 

"Just  to  give  you  all  a  little  proof  of  how  big  a  fool 
a  man  can  be  without  being  a  'permanent'  in  a  lunatic 
asylum." 

And  then  he  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  men 
digging  up  the  loose  earth.  They  had  not  far  to  go; 
small  care  had  been  taken  to  make  the  grave  deep. 

"Take  care  there  with  your  knives,"  said  Genesee 
as  one  shoulder  was  bared  to  sight.  "Lift  him  out. 
Here — give  him  to  me." 

"What  in— 

"Give  him  to  me!"  he  repeated.  "I've  given  your 
damned  fool  lives  back  to  forty  of  you,  and  all  I'm 
asking  for  it  is  that  Kootenai's  dead  body." 

Stuart  stooped  and  lifted  the  chill,  dark  thing,  and 
other  hands  were  quick  to  help.  The  frozen  soil  was 
brushed  like  dust  from  the  frozen  face,  and  then,  heavy— 
heavy,  it  wa?  laid  in  the  arms  of  the  man  waiting  for  it. 

He  scanned  from  the  young  face  to  the  moccasined 
feet  swiftly,  and  then  turned  his  eyes  to  the  others. 

"Where's  his  blanket?"  he  demanded;  and  a  man 
who  wore  it  pushed  forward  and  threw  it  over  the 
figure. 


330  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Denny  took  it,"  he  said  in  extenuation,  "and  when 
Denny  went  under,  I  took  it." 

"Yes!"  and  again  his  eyes  swept  the  crowd.  "Now 
I  want  his  rifle,  his  knife,  a  snake-skin  belt,  and  a  neck 
lace  of  bear's  teeth— who's  got  them?" 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  "How's  that  for  second 
sight?"  "Beats  the  devil  out  of  hell!"  were  some  of 
the  sotto-voce  remarks  exchanged  at  the  enumeration 
of  the  things  wanted. 

"I've  no  time  to  waste  in  waiting,"  he  added.  "If 
they're  in  this  crowd  and  ain't  given  up,  I'll  straighten 
the  account  some  day,  if  I  have  to  hunt  five  years  for 
the  trail  to  them.  I'm  a-waiting." 

His  hand  was  laid  on  the  breast  of  the  dead  Indian 
as  he  spoke,  and  something  in  the  touch  brought  a 
change  to  his  face.  The  hand  was  slipped  quickly 
inside  the  fringed  shirt,  and  withdrawn,  clasping  a 
roll  of  parchment  cured  in  Indian  fashion.  A  bitter 
oath  broke  from  him  as  he  untied  the  white  sinews  of 
the  deer,  and  glanced  at  the  contents. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  was  the  question  from 
all  sides. 

Genesee,  in  a  sort  of  fury,  seemed  to  hear  most  clearly 
that  of  the,  for  the  hour,  displaced  commander. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is!"  he  burst  out  wrathfully. 
"It's  a  message  of  peace  from  the  Kootenai  tribe— an 
offer  of  their  help  against  the  Blackfeet  any  time  the 
troops  of  the  United  States  need  them.  It  is  sent  by 
Grey  Eagle,  the  oldest  of  their  war  chiefs,  and  the 
messenger  sent  was  Grey  Eagle's  grandson,  Snowcap 
— the  future  chief  of  their  people.  And  you  have  had 
him  shot  down  like  a  dog  while  carrying  that  message. 
By  God!  I  wouldn't  have  blamed  them  if  they  had 
scalped  every  mother's  son  of  you." 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINE.  331 

To  say  that  the  revelation  was  impressive,  would 
express  the  emotions  of  the  men  but  mildly.  Captain 
Holt  was  not  the  only  one  of  them  who  turned  white  at 
the  realization  of  what  a  provoked  uprising  of  those 
joint  tribes  would  mean,  in  the  crippled  condition  of 
the  camp.  It  would  mean  a  sweeping  annihilation  of 
all  white  blood  in  their  path;  the  troops  would  have 
enough  to  do  to  defend  themselves,  without  being  able 
to  help  the  settlers. 

"In  God's  name,  Genesee,  is  this  true?"  and  forget 
ting  all  animosity  in  the  overwhelming  news,  Holt 
pressed  forward,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
dead  messenger. 

"Take  it  off!"  yelled  Genesee,  looking  at  the  uncon 
scious  hand  that  involuntarily  had  moved  toward  him. 
"Take  it  off,  or,  by  Heaven,  I'll  cut  it  off!" 

And  his  fingers  closing  nervously  on  the  hunting- 
knife  emphasized  his  meaning,  and  showed  how  stub 
born  and  sleepless  were  the  man's  prejudices. 

The  hand  dropped,  and  Genesee  reached  out  the 
document  to  one  of  the  crestfallen  scouts. 

"Just  read  that  out  loud  for  the  benefit  of  anyone 
that  can't  understand  my  way  of  talking,"  he  sug 
gested  with  ironical  bitterness;  "and  while  you  are 
about  it,  the  fellows  that  stripped  this  boy  will  be  good 
enough  to  ante  up  with  everything  they've  got  of  his 
— and  no  time  to  waste  about  it  either." 

And  Captain  Holt,  with  a  new  idea  of  the  seriousness 
of  the  demand,  seconded  it,  receiving  with  his  own  hands 
the  arms  and  decorations  that  had  been  seized  by  the 
victorious  Denny,  and  afterward  divided  among  his 
comrades.  Genesee  noted  that  rendering  up  of  trifling 
spoils  with  sullen  eyes,  in  which  the  fury  had  not  abated 
a  particle. 


332  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"A  healthy  crew  you  are!"  he  remarked  contemptu 
ously;  "a  nice,  clean-handed  lot,  without  grit  enough 
to  steal  a  horse,  but  plenty  of  it  for  robbing  a  dead 
boy.  I  reckon  no  one  of  you  ever  had  a  boy  that  age 
of  your  own." 

Several  of  them — looking  in  the  dark,  dead  face — 
felt  uneasy,  and  forgot  for  the  moment  that  they  were 
lectured  by  a  horse-thief;  forgot  even  how  light  a  thing 
the  life  of  an  Indian  was  anyway. 

"Don't  blame  the  whole  squad,"  said  the  man  who 
took  the  articles  from  the  Captain  and  handed  them 
up  to  Genesee.  "Denny  captured  them  when  he  made 
the  shot,  just  as  anyone  would  do,  and  it's  no  use  cussin' 
about  Denny;  he's  buried  up  in  that  gulch — the  Koo- 
tenais  finished  him." 

"And  saved  me  the  trouble,"  added  the  scout  signifi 
cantly. 

He  was  wrapping  as  well  as  he  could  the  gay  blanket 
over  the  rigid  form.  The  necklace  was  clasped  about 
the  throat,  but  the  belt  was  more  awkward  to  manage, 
and  was  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  Genesee's  buckskin 
shirt,  the  knife  in  his  belt,  the  rifle  swung  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  impressively  ghastly  in  those 
two  figures — the  live  one  with  the  stubborness  of  fate, 
and  the  stolidity,  sitting  there,  with  across  his  thighs 
the  blanketed,  shapeless  thing  that  had  held  a  life; 
and  even  the  husk  seemed  a  little  rrore  horrible  with 
its  face  hidden  than  when  revealed  more  frankly;  there 
was  something  so  weirdly  suggestive  in  the  motion 
less  outlines. 

"No,  I  don't  want  that,"  he  said,  as  the  man  who 
read  the  message  was  about  to  hand  it  back  to  him; 
"it  belongs  to  the  command,  and  I  may  get  a  dose  of 
cold  lead  before  I  could  deliver  it." 


THROUGH  THE  LOST  MINIS.  333 

Then  he  glanced  about,  signaling  Stuart  by  a  motion 
of  his  head. 

"There's  a  lady  across  in  the  valley  there  that  I 
treated  pretty  badly  last  night,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  so 
natural  that  all  near  could  hear  him,  and  more  than 
one  head  was  raised  in  angry  question.  "She  was 
just  good  enough  to  ride  over  from  the  ranch  to  bring 
a  letter  to  me — hearing  I  was  locked  up  for  a  horse- 
thief,  and  couldn't  go  after  it.  Well,  as  I  tell  you, 
I  was  just  mean  enough  to  treat  her  pretty  bad — flung 
her  on  the  floor  when  she  tried  to  stop  me,  and  then 
nabbed  the  beast  she  rode  to  camp  on — happened  to 
be  my  own;  but  may  be  she  won't  feel  so  bad  if  you 
just  tell  her  what  the  nag  was  used  for;  and  may  be 
that  will  show  her  I  didn't  take  the  trail  for  fun." 

"That"  was  one  of  the  gloves  he  had  worn  from  his 
hands  with  his  night's  work,  and  there  were  stains  on 
it  darker  than  those  made  with  earth. 

"I'll  tell  her;"  and  then  an  impulsive  honesty  of 
feeling  made  him  add:  "You  need  never  fear  her  judg 
ment  of  you,  Jack." 

The  two  looked  a  moment  in  each  other's  eyes,  and 
the  older  man  spoke. 

"I've  been  hard  on  you,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"damned  hard;  all  at  once  I've  seen  it,  and  all  the  time 
you've  been  thinking  a  heap  better  of  me  than  I  deserved. 
I  know  it  now,  but  it's  about  over.  I  won't  stand  in 
your  way  much  longer;  wait  till  I  come  back — " 

"You  are  coming  back?  and  where  are  you  going?" 
The  questions,  a  tone  louder  than  they  had  used,  were 
heard  by  the  others  around.  Genesee  noted  the  listening 
look  on  the  faces,  and  his  words  were  answers  to  them 
as  much  as  to  the  questioner. 

"I'm  going  to  take  the  trail  for  the  Kootenai  village; 


<J34  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

if  any  white  man  is  let  reach  it,  or  patch  up  the  infernal 
blunder  that's  been  made,  I  can  do  it  with  him,"  and 
his  hand  lay  on  the  breast  of  the  shrouded  thing  before 
him. 

"If  I  get  out  of  it  alive,  I'll  be  back  to  meet  the 
Major;  if  I  don't" — -and  this  time  his  significant  glance 
was  turned  unmistakably  to  the  blue  coats  and  their 
leader — "and  if  I  don't,  you'd  better  pack  your  car 
casses  out  of  this  Kootenai  valley,  and  hell  go  With 
you." 

So,  with  a  curse  for  them  on  his  lips,  and  the  dogged 
determination  to  save  them  in  his  heart,  he  nodded 
to  Hardy,  clasped  the  hand  of  Stuart,  and  turning 
Mowitza's  head,  started  with  that  horrible  burden  back 
over  the  trail  that  would  take  a  day  and  a  night  to 
cover. 

The  men  were  grateful  for  the  bravery  that  had  saved 
their  lives,  but  burned  under  the  brutal  taunts  that 
had  spared  nothing  of  their  feelings.  His  execrable 
temper  had  belittled  his  own  generosity. 

He  was  a  squaw  man,  but  they  had  listened  in  silence 
and  ashamed,  when  he  had  presumed  to  censure  them. 
He  was  a  horse-thief,  yet  the  men  who  believed  it 
watched,  with  few  words,  the  figure  disappear  slowly 
along  the  trail,  with  no  thought  of  checking  him. 


HIS  WIFE'S  LETTER.  335 

CHAPTER  V. 

HIS    WIFE'S    LETTER. 

In  the  bosom  of  Rachel's  family  strange  thoughts  had 
been  aroused  by  that  story  of  Genesee's  escape. 

They  were  wonderfully  sparing  of  their  comments  in 
her  presence;  for,  when  the  story  came  to  her  of  what 
he  had  done  when  he  left  her,  she  laughed. 

"Yet  he  is  a  horse-thief,"  she  said,  in  that  tone  of 
depreciation  that  expresses  praise,  "and  he  sent  me 
his  glove?  Well,  I  am  glad  he  had  the  grace  to  be 
sorry  for  scattering  me  over  the  floor  like  that.  And 
we  owe  it  to  him  that  we  see  you  here  alive  again  ?  We 
can  appreciate  his  bravery,  even  say  prayers  for  him, 
if  the  man  would  only  keep  out  of  sight,  but  we  couldn't 
ask  him  to  a  dinner  party,  supposing  we  gave  dinner 
parties,  could  we,  Tillie?" 

And  Tillie,  who  had  impulsively  said  "God  bless  him ! " 
from  the  shelter  of  her  husband's  arms,  collapsed,  con 
science-stricken  and  tearful. 

"You  have  a  horrid  way,  Rachel,  of  making  people 
feel  badly,"  she  said,  in  the  midst  of  her  thankfulness  and 
remorse;  "but  wait  until  I  see  him  again— I  will  let  him 
know  how  much  we  can  appreciate  such  courage  as 
that.  Just  wait  until  he  comes  back!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  with  all  the  irony  gone 
from  her  voice,  only  the  dreariness  remaining,  "I'm 
waiting. ' ' 

The  words  started  Tillie  to  crying  afresh;  for,  in  the 
recesses  of  her  own  bosom,  another  secret  of  Genesee's 
generosity  was  hidden  for  prudential  motives— the  fact 


336  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

that  it  was  he  who  had  sent  the  guide  for  Rachel  that 
terrible  night  of  the  snow.  And  Tillie  was  not  a  good 
keeper  of  secrets — even  this  thoroughly  wise  one  was 
hard  to  retain,  in  her  gladness  at  having  her  husband 
back ! 

"The  man  seems  a  sort  of  shepherd  of  everything 
that  gets  astray  in  these  hills,"  said  Lieutenant  Mur 
ray,  who  was  kindly  disposed  toward  all  creation 
because  of  an  emotional,  unsoldier-like  welcome  that 
had  been  given  him  by  the  little  non-commissioned 
officer  in  petticoats.  "He  first  led  us  out  of  that 
corral  in  the  hills  and  brought  us  back  where  we 
belonged,  and  then  dug  up  that  dead  Indian  and 
started  to  take  him  where  he  belonged.  I  tell  you 
there  was  a  sort  of — of  sublimity  in  the  man  as  he 
sat  there  with  that  horrible  load  he  was  to  carry,  that 
is,  there  would  have  been  if  he  hadn't  'cussed'  so 
much." 

"Does  he  swear?"  queried  Fred. 

"Does  he?  My  child,  you  would  have  a  finely-trained 
imagination  if  you  could  conceive  the  variety  of  expres 
sions  by  which  he  can  consign  a  citizen  to  the  winter 
resort  from  which  all  good  citizens  keep  free.  His 
profanity,  they  say,  is  only  equaled  by  his  immorality. 
But,  ah — what  a  soldier  he  would  make!  He  is  the 
sort  of  a  man  that  men  would  walk  right  up  to  cannon 
with — even  if  they  detested  him  personally." 

"And  a  man  needs  no  fine  attributes  or  high  morality 
to  wield  that  sort  of  influence,  does  he?"  asked  Rachel, 
and  walked  deliberately  away  before  any  reply  could  be 
made. 

But  she  was  no  more  confident  than  they  of  his 
unimpeachable  worth.  There  was  the  horse-thieving 
still  unexplained ;  he  had  not  even  denied  it  to  her.  And 


HIS  WIFE'S  LETTER.  337 

she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  herself  was  sadly 
lacking  in  the  material  for  orthodox  womanhood,  since 
the  more  proof  she  had  of  his  faults,  the  more  solidly 
she  took  her  position  for  his  defense.  It  had  in  it  some 
thing  of  the  same  blind  stubbornness  that  governed 
his  likes  and  dislikes,  and  that  very  similarity  might 
have  accounted  for  the  sort  of  understanding  that  had 
so  long  existed  between  them.  And  she  had  more 
than  the  horse-stealing  to  puzzle  over.  She  had  that 
letter  he  had  thrust  in  her  hand  and  told  her  to  read; 
such  a  pleading  letter,  filled  with  the  heart -sickness  of  a 
lonely  woman.  She  took  it  out  and  re-read  it  that  time 
when  she  walked  away  from  their  comments ;  and  read 
ing  over  the  lines,  and  trying  to  read  between  them,  she 
was  sorely  puzzled : 

'  DEAR  JACK:  I  wrote  you  of  my  illness  weeks  ago, 
but  the  letter  must  have  been  lost,  or  else  your  answer, 
for  I  have  not  heard  a  word  from  you,  and  I  have 
wanted  it  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  I  am  better,  and 
our  little  Jack  has  taken  such  good  care  of  me  He 
is  so  helpful,  so  gentle ;  and  do  you  know,  dear,  he  grows 
to  look  more  like  you  every  day.  Does  that  seem 
strange?  He  does  not  resemble  me  in  the  least.  You 
will  think  me  very  exacting,  I  suppose,  when  I  tell  you 
that  such  a  child,  and  such  a  home  as  you  have  given 
me,  does  not  suffice  for  my  content.  I  know  you  will 
think  me  ungrateful,  but  I  must  speak  of  it  to  you. 
I  wrote  you  before,  but  no  answer  has  come.  If  I  get 
none  to  this,  I  will  go  to  find  you— if  I  am  strong  enough. 
If  I  am  not,  I  shall  send  Jack.  He  is  so  manly  and 
strong,  I  know  he  could  go.  I  will  know  then,  at  least, 
if  you  are  living.  I  feel  as  if  I  am  confessing  a  fault 
to  you  when  I  tell  you  I  have  heard  from  him  at  last 
—and  more,  that  I  was  so  glad  to  hear! 
22 


338  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"Jack — dear  Jack — he  has  never  forgotten.  He  is 
free  now ;  would  marry  me  yet  if  it  were  possible.  Write 
to  me — tell  me  if  it  can  ever  be.  I  know  how  weak  you 
will  think  me.  Perhaps  my  late  ill-health  has  made 
me  more  so ;  but  I  am  hungry  for  the  sound  of  the  dear 
voice,  and  I  am  so  alone  since  your  father  died.  You 
will  never  come  back;  and  you  know,  Jack,  how  loneli 
ness  always  was  so  dreadful  to  me — even  our  boy 
is  not  enough.  He  does  not  understand.  Come  back, 
or  write  to  me.  Let  my  boy  know  his  father,  or  else 
show  me  how  to  be  patient;  this  silence  is  so  terrible 
to  YOUR  WIFE. 

"Jack,  what  a  mockery  that  word  looks — yet  I  am 
grateful." 

This  was  the  letter  he  had  told  her  to  read  and  give 
to  Stuart,  if  he  never  returned ;  but  she  gave  it  to  no  one. 
She  mentioned  it  to  no  one,  only  waited  to  see  if  he  ever 
came  back,  and  with  each  reading  of  that  other  woman's 
longings,  there  grew  stronger  in  her  the  determination 
that  his  life  belonged  to  the  writer  of  that  letter  and 
her  child — her  boy,  who  looked  like  him.  Surely  there 
was  a  home  and  an  affection  that  should  cure  him  of 
this  wild,  semi-civilized  life  he  was  leading.  She  was 
slipping  away  that  almighty  need  he  had  shown  of 
herself.  She  grimly  determined  that  all  remembrance 
of  it  must  be  put  aside;  it  was  such  an  unheard-of, 
reasonless  sort  of  an  attraction  anyway,  and  if  she 
really  had  any  influence  over  him,  it  should  be  used  to 
make  him  answer  that  letter  as  it  should  be  answered, 
and  straighten  out  the  strange  puzzles  in  it.  All  this 
she  determined  she  would  tell  him — when  he  got 
back. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS.  339 

CHAPTER  VI. 

ON    THE    HEIGHTS. 

While  they  commented,  and  wondered,  and  praised, 
and  found  fault  with  him,  the  day  drifted  into  dark 
ness,  the  darkness  into  a  dreary  dawn;  and  through 
all  changes  of  the  hours  the  outlaw  stalked,  with  some 
times  his  ghastly  companion  bound  to  the  saddle,  and 
then  again  he  would  remount,  holding  Snowcap  in  his 
arms— but  seldom  halting,  never  wavering;  and  Mow- 
itza,  who  seemed  more  than  ever  a  familiar  spirit,  forged 
ahead  as  if  ignoring  the  fact  of  hunger  and  scanty 
herbage  to  be  found,  her  sturdy  persistence  suggesting 
a  realization  of  her  own  importance. 

A  broad  trail  was  left  for  them,  one  showing  that 
the  detachment  of  braves  and  the  horses  of  the  troops 
had  returned  under  forced  march  to  bear  the  news  to 
their  village — and  such  news ! 

The  man's  dark  face  hardened  and  more  than  one 
of  those  expressive  maledictions  broke  from  him  as  he 
thought  over  it.  All  his  sympathies  were  with  them. 
For  five  years  they  had  been  as  brethren  to  him ;  never 
had  any  act  of  treachery  touched  him  through  them. 
To  their  people  he  was  not  Genesee  the  outcast,  the 
immoral,  the  suspected.  He  was  Lamonti— of'  the 
mountains — like  their  own  blood. 

He  was  held  wise  in  their  councils,  and  his  advice  had 
weight. 

He  could  have  ruled  their  chief,  and  so  their  nation, 
had  he  been  ambitious  for  such  control. 

He  was  their  adopted  son,  and  had  never  presumed  on 


340  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

their  liking,  though  he  knew  there  was  little  in  their 
slender  power  that  would  not  have  been  his  had  he 
desired  it. 

Now  he  knew  he  would  be  held  their  enemy.  His 
influence  had  encouraged  the  sending  of  that  message 
and  the  offered  braves  to  the  commander  of  the  troops. 
Would  they  grant  him  a  hearing  now?  or  would  they 
shoot  him  down,  as  the  soldier  had  shot  Snowcap,  with 
his  message  undelivered? 

Those  questions,  and  the  retrospection  back  of  them, 
were  with  him  as  he  went  upward  into  the  mountains 
to  the  north. 

Another  night  was  falling  slowly,  and  the  jewels  of 
the  far  skies  one  by  one  slipped  from  their  ether  casket, 
and  shone  with  impressive  serenity  on  the  crusted  snow. 
Along  the  last  ridge  Mowitza  bore  for  the  last  time  her 
double  burden.  There  was  but  a  slope  to  descend,  a 
sheltered  cove  to  reach,  and  Snowcap  would  be  given 
back  to  his  kindred. 

The  glittering  surface  of  the  white  carpet  warmed 
into  reflected  lights  as  the  moon,  a  soft -footed,  imma 
ture  virgin,  stole  after  the  stars  and  let  her  gleams 
be  wooed  and  enmeshed  in  the  receptive  arms  of  the 
whispering  pine.  Not  a  sound  broke  through  the 
peace  of  the  heights.  In  their  sublime  isolation,  they 
lift  souls  as  well  as  bodies  above  the  commonplace, 
and  the  rider,  the  stubborn  keeper  of  so  many  of  their 
secrets,  threw  back  his  head  with  a  strange  smile 
in  his  eyes  as  the  last  summit  was  reached — and 
reached  in  the  light  of  peace.  Was  it  an  omen  of 
good?  He  thought  of  that  girl  back  in  the  valley 
who  was  willing  to  share  this  life  of  the  hills  with 
him.  All  things  beautiful  made  him  think  of  her, 
and  the  moon-kissed  night  was  grand,  up  there  above 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS.  341 

where  men  lived.  He  thought  of  her  superb  faith,  not 
in  what  he  was,  but  in  what  her  woman's  instinct  told 
her  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be.  What  a  universe  of 
loves  in  human  hearts  revolves  about  those  unseen, 
unproven  substances! 

He  thought  of  the  time  when  she  had  lain  in  his 
arms  as  Snowcap  was  lying,  and  he  had  carried  her 
over  the  hills  in  the  moonlight.  He  was  bitterly  cold, 
but  through  the  icy  air  there  came  the  thrill  and  flush 
of  that  long-past  temptation.  He  wondered  what 
she  would  say  when  they  told  her  how  he  had  used 
his  freedom.  The  conviction  of  her  approval  again 
gave  that  strange  smile  of  elation  to  his  eyes;  and 
the  cold  and  hunger  were  ignored,  and  his  fatigue 
fell  from  him.  And  with  the  tenderness  that  one 
gives  to  a  sleeping  child,  he  adjusted  with  his  wounded 
hands  the  blanket  that  slipped  from  the  dead 
boy,  raising  one  of  the  rigid  arms  the  better  to  shroud 
it  in  the  gay  colors. 

Then  the  peace  of  the  heights  was  broken  by  a  sharp 
report;  the  whiteness  of  the  moonlight  was  crossed 
by  the  quick,  red  flash  of  death  and  Mowitza  stopped 
still  in  her  tracks,  while  her  master,  with  that 
dead  thing  clasped  close  in  his  arms,  lunged  forward 
on  her  neck. 


342  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A    REBEL. 

Within  the  confines  of  Camp  Kootenai  there  was  a 
ripple  of  rejoicing.  At  last,  after  four  days  lost  because 
of  the  snow,  Major  Dreyer  had  arrived,  pushing  on 
with  all  possible  haste  after  meeting  the  runner — and, 
to  the  bewilderment  of  all,  he  rode  into  camp  on  one 
of  the  horses  stolen  almost  a  week  ago. 

"No  mystery  about  it — only  a  little  luck,"  he  said 
in  explanation.  "I  found  him  at  Holland's  as  I  came 
up.  A  white  man  belonging  to  the  Blackfeet  rode 
him  in  there  several  nights  ago.  The  white  man  got 
drunk,  picked  a  row,  and  got  his  pay  for  it.  They 
gave  him  grave-room  down  there,  and  in  the  morning 
discovered  that  the  beast  had  our  brand,  so  gave  him 
up  to  us  as  we  came  through." 

Needless  to  say  that  this  account  was  listened  to 
with  unusual  interest.  A  man  belonging  to  the 
Blackfeet!  That  proved  Genesee's  theory  of  which  he 
had  spoken  to  Captain  Holt — the  theory  that  was  so 
thoroughly  discredited. 

When  word  was  brought  that  the  Major's  party  had 
been  sighted  from  the  south,  Fred  and  Rachel  could 
hardly  wait  for  the  saddles  to  be  thrown  on  the  horses. 

Tillie  caught  the  fever  of  impatience,  and  rode 
down  beside  Hardy.  Stuart  was  not  about.  The  days 
since  Genesee's  departure  he  had  put  in  almost 
entirely  with  the  scouts  stationed  to  note  any 
approach  from  the  north;  he  was  waiting  for  that 
coming  back.  Kalitan,  for  the  first  time  since 


A  REBEL.  343 

Genesee's  flight,  came  into  camp.  The  man  who  had 
seemed  the  friend  of  his  friend  was  again  in  com 
mand;  and  he  showed  his  appreciation  of  the  differ 
ence  by  presenting  himself  in  person  beside  Rachel, 
to  whom  he  had  allied  himself  in  a  way  that  was  curi 
ous  to  the  rest,  and  was  so  devotionally  serious  to 
himself. 

"Then,  perhaps  it  was  not  that  Genesee  who  stole 
the  horses,  after  all,"  broke  in  Fred,  as  her  father  told 
the  story. 

"Genesee! — nonsense!"  said  the  Major  brusquely. 
"We  must  look  into  that  affair  at  once,"  and  he  glanced 
at  the  Captain;  "but  if  that  man's  a  horse-thief,  I've 
made  a  big  mistake — and  I  won't  believe  it  until  I  have 
proof." 

As  yet  there  had  been  no  attempt  at  any  investiga 
tion  of  affairs,  only  an  informal  welcoming  group, 
and  Fred,  anxious  to  tell  a  story  that  she  thought 
astonishing,  recounted  breathlessly  the  saving  of  the 
men  by  way  of  the  mine,  and  of  the  gloves  and  the 
hands  worn  in  that  night's  work,  and  last,  of  the  dig 
ging  up  of  that  body  and  carrying  it  awray  to  the  moun 
tains. 

Her  father,  at  first  inclined  to  check  her  voluble 
recital  that  would  come  to  him  in  a  more  official  form, 
refrained,  as  the  practical  array  of  facts  showing  through 
her  admiration  summed  themselves  up  in  a  mass  that 
echoed  his  convictions. 

"And  that  is  the  man  suspected  of  stealing  a  few 
horses?  Good  God!  what  proof  have  you  that  will 
weigh  against  courage  like  that  ? ' ' 

"Major,  he  scarcely  denied  it,"  said  the  Captain,  in 
extenuation  of  their  suspicions.  "He  swore  the  Koo- 
tenais  did  not  do  it,  and  that's  all  he  would  say.  He 


344  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

was  absent  all  the  afternoon  and  all  the  night  of  the 
thievery,  and  refused  to  give  any  account  whatever  of 
his  absence,  even  when  I  tried  to  impress  him  with  the 
seriousness  of  the  situation.  The  man's  reputation, 
added  to  his  suspicious  absence,  left  me  but  one  thing 
to  do — I  put  him  under  guard." 

''That  does  look  strange,"  agreed  the  Major,  with  a 
troubled  face;  "refused — 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  sound  from  Rachel,  who  had 
not  spoken  after  the  conversation  turned  to  Genesee. 
She  came  forward  with  a  low  cry,  trembling  and  pas 
sionate,  doubt  and  hope  blending  in  her  face. 

"Did  you  say  the  night  the  horses  were  stolen?"  she 
demanded.  All  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  and  Kali- 
tan  instinctively  slid  a  little  nearer. 

"Yes,  it  was  in  the  night,"  answered  the  Captain, 
"about  two  o'clock;  but  you  surely  knew  about  it?" 

"I?  I  knew  nothing,"  she  burst  out  furiously;  "they 
lied  to  me — all  of  you.  You  told  me  it  was  in  the 
morning.  How  dared  you — how  dared  you  do  it?" 

The  Major  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  her  arm;  he 
could  feel  that  she  was  trembling  violently.  She  had 
kept  so  contemptuously  cool  through  all  those  days 
of  doubt,  but  she  was  cool  no  longer;  her  face  was  white, 
but  it  looked  a  white  fury. 

"What  matter  about  the  hour,  Miss  Rachel?"  asked 
the  commander ;  and  she  shook  off  his  hand  and  stepped 
back  beside  Kalitan,  as  if  putting  herself  where  Genesee 
had  put  himself — with  the  Indians. 

"Because  I  could  have  told  where  Jack  Genesee  was 
that  night,  if  they  had  not  deceived  me.  He  was 
with  me." 

Tillie  gave  a  little  cry  of  wonder  and  contrition.  She 
saw  it  all  now. 


A  REBEL.  345 

"But — but  you  said  it  was  a  Kootenai  who  brought  you 
home,"  she  protested  feebly;  "you  told  us  Lamonti." 

"He  is  a  Kootenai  by  adoption,  and  he  is  called 
Lamonti,"  said  the  girl  defiantly;  "and  the  night  those 
horses  were  run  off,  he  was  with  me  from  an  hour  after 
sundown  until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

That  bold  statement  had  a  damaging  ring  to  it — 
unnecessarily  so;  and  the  group  about  her,  and  the 
officers  and  men  back  of  them,  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Then,  since  you  can  tell  this  much  in  his  favor,  can 
you  tell  why  he  himself  refused  to  answer  so  simple  a 
question?"  asked  Major  Dreyer  kindly. 

That  staggered  her  for  a  moment,  as  she  put  her  hand 
up  in  a  helpless  way  over  her  eyes,  thinking — thinking 
fast.  She  realized  now  what  it  meant,  the  silence  that 
was  for  her  sake — the  silence  that  was  not  broken  even 
to  her.  And  a  mighty  remorse  arose  for  her  doubt — the 
doubt  she  had  let  him  see ;  yet  he  had  not  spoken !  She 
raised  her  eyes  and  met  the  curious  glances  of  the  men, 
and  that  decided  her.  They  were  the  men  who  had 
from  the  first  condemned  him — been  jealous  of  the 
commander's  trust. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  tell  you  that,  too,"  she  said 
frankly.  "The  man  is  my  friend.  I  was  lost  in  the 
snow  that  night;  he  found  me,  and  it  took  us  all  night 
to  get  home.  He  knows  how  these  people  think  of 
him;"  and  her  eyes  spared  none.  "They  have  made 
him  feel  that  he  is  an  outcast  among  them.  They  have 
made  him  feel  that  a  friendship  or  companionship  with 
him  is  a  discredit  to  any  woman — oh,  I  know!  They 
think  so  now,  in  spite  of  what  he  has  done  for  them. 
He  knows  that.  He  is  very  generous,  and  wanted,  I 
suppose,  to  spare  me;  and  I — I  was  vile  enough  to  doubt 
him,"  she  burst  out.  "Even  when  I  brought  him  his 


346  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

horse,  I  half  believed  the  lies  about  him,  and  he  knew 
it,  and  never  said  a  word — not  one  word." 

"When  you  brought  him  his  horse? "  asked  the  Major, 
looking  at  her  keenly,  though  not  unkindly. 

Her  remorse  found  a  new  vent  in  the  bravado  with 
which  she  looked  at  them  all  and  laughed. 

"Yes,"  she  said  defiantly,  as  if  there  was  a  certain 
comfort  in  braving  their  displeasure,  and  proving  her 
rebellion  to  their  laws;  "yes,  I  brought  him  his  horse 
—not  by  accident  either!  I  brought  him  brandy  and 
provisions;  I  brought  him  revolvers  and  ammunition. 
I  helped  him  to  escape,  and  I  cut  the  bonds  your  guards 
had  fastened  him  with.  Now,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

Tillie  gasped  with  horror.  She  did  not  quite  know 
whether  they  would  shoot  her  as  a  traitor,  or  only 
imprison  her;  but  she  knew  military  law  could  be  a 
very  dreadful  thing,  and  her  fears  were  extravagant. 

As  for  Miss  Fred,  her  eyes  were  sparkling.  With 
the  quick  deductions  of  her  kind,  she  reasoned  that, 
without  the  escape  that  night,  the  men  would  have 
died  in  that  trap  in  the  hills,  and  a  certain  delicious 
meeting  and  its  consequences — of  which  she  was  wait 
ing  to  tell  the  Major, — would  never  have  been  hers. 
Her  feelings  were  very  frankly  expressed,  as  she 
stepped  across  to  the  self-isolated  rebel  and  kissed 
her. 

"You're  a  darling — and  a  plucky  girl,"  she  said 
warmly;  "and  you  never  looked  so  pretty  in  your 
life." 

The  defiant  face  did  not  relax,  even  at  that 
intelligence.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  commander,  her 
judge.  And  he  was  looking  with  decided  interest  at 
her. 


A  REBEL  347 

"Yours  is  a  very  grave  offense,  Miss  Rachel,"  he 
said,  with  deliberation  that  struck  added  terrors  to 
Tillie's  heart.  "The  penalty  of  contriving  the  escape 
of  prisoners  is  one  I  do  not  like  to  mention  to  you; 
but  since  the  man  in  this  case  was  innocent,  and  I 
take  your' evidence  in  proof — well,  that  might  be  some 
extenuation  of  the  act." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  innocent  when  I  helped  him," 
she  broke  in;  "I  thought  the  horses  were  stolen  after 
he  left  me." 

"That  makes  it  more  serious,  certainly;"  but  his  eyes 
were  not  at  all  serious.  "And  since  you  seem  deter 
mined  to  allow  nothing  in  extenuation  of  your  own 
actions,  I  can  only  say  that — that  I  value  very  highly 
the  forty  men  whose  lives  were  saved  to  us  by  that 
escape;  and  when  I  see  Mr.  Genesee,  I  will  thank  him 
in  the  warmest  way  at  my  command;"  and  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  the  very  erect,  very  defiant  rebel. 

She  could  scarcely  believe  it  when  she  heard  the 
words  of  praise  about  her;  when  one  man  after  another 
of  that  rescued  crowd  came  forward  to  shake  hands 
with  her — and  Hardy  almost  lifted  her  off  her  feet  to 
kiss  her.  "By  George!  I'm  proud  of  you,  Rachel," 
he  said  impulsively.  "You  are  plucky  enough  to — to 
be  Genesee  himself." 

The  praise  seemed  a  very  little  thing  to  her.  Her 
bravado  was  over;  she  felt  as  if  she  must  cry  if  they 
did  not  leave  her  alone.  Of  what  use  were  words, 
if  he  should  never  come  back — never  know  that  he 
was  cleared  of  suspicion?  If  they  had  so  many  kind 
words  now,  why  had  they  not  found  some  for  him 
when  he  needed  them?  She  did  not  know  the  uncom 
promising  surliness  that  made  him  so  difficult  of 
approach  to  many  people,  especially  any  who  showed 


348  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

their  own  feeling  of  superiority,  as  most  of  them  did, 
to  a  squaw  man. 

She  heard  that  term  from  the  Major,  a  moment  after 
he  had  shaken  hands  with  her.  He  had  asked  what 
were  the  other  suspicions  mentioned  against  Genesee; 
she  could  not  hear  the  answer — they  had  moved  a  little 
apart  from  her — but  she  could  hear  the  impatience  with 
which  he  broke  in  on  their  speech. 

"A  squaw  man! — well,  what  if  he  is?"  he  asked, 
with  a  serene  indifference  to  the  social  side  of  the  ques 
tion.  "What  difference  does  it  make  whether  the  man's 
wife  has  been  red,  or  white,  or  black,  so  long  as  she 
suited  him?  There  are  two  classes  of  squaw  men,  as 
there  are  of  other  men  on  the  frontier — the  renegades 
and  the  usual  percentage  of  honest  and  dishonest 
citizens.  You've  all  apparently  been  willing  to  under 
stand  only  the  renegades.  I've  been  along  the  border 
for  thirty  years,  and  some  of  the  bravest  white  men 
I've  ever  seen  had  Indian  wives.  Some  of  the  men 
whose  assistance  in  Indian  wars  has  been  invaluable 
to  us  are  ranchmen  whose  children  are  half-breeds, 
and  who  have  taught  their  squaws  housework  and 
English  at  the  same  time,  and  made  them  a  credit  to 
any  nation.  There's  a  heap  of  uncalled-for  prejudice 
against  a  certain  class  of  those  men;  and,  so  far  as  I've 
noticed,  the  sneak  who  abandons  his  wife  and  children 
back  in  the  States,  or  borrows  the  wife  of  someone 
else  to  make  the  trip  out  here  with,  is  the  specimen 
that  is  first  to  curl  his  lip  at  the  squaw  man.  That 
girl  over  there  strikes  me  as  showing  more  common 
sense  than  the  whole  community;  she  gave  him  the 
valuation  of  a  man." 

The  Major's  blood  was  up.  It  was  seldom  that  he 
made  so  long  a  speech;  but  the  question  was  one 


A  REBEL.  349 

against  which  he  had  clashed  often,  and  to  find  the 
old  prejudice  was  so  strong  a  factor  in  the  disorganizing 
of  an  outpost  was  enraging. 

' '  And  do  you  realize  what  that  man  did  when  he  took 
that  trail  north?"  he  demanded  impressively.  "He 
knew  that  he  carried  his  life  in  his  hand  as  surely  as 
he  carried  that  body.  And  he  went  up  there  to  play  it 
against  big  odds  for  the  sake  of  a  lot  of  people  who  had 
a  contemptible  contempt  for  him." 

"And  cursed  us  soundly  while  he  did  it,"  added  one 
of  the  men,  in  an  aside;  but  the  Major  overheard  it. 

"Yes,  that's  like  him,  too,"  he  agreed.  "But,  if  any 
of  you  can  show  me  so  great  a  courage  and  conscien 
tiousness  in  a  more  refined  citizen,  I'm  waiting  to 
see  it." 

Then  there  was  the  quick  fall  of  hoofs  outside  the 
shack,  hurried  questions  and  brief  answers.  One  of 
the  scouts  from  the  north  ridge  rushed  in  and  reported 
to  Major  Dreyer. 

"A  gang  o'  hostiles  are  in  sight — not  many;  they've 
got  our  horses.  Think  they  carry  a  flag  o'  truce,  but 
couldn't  spot  it  for  sure.  They're  not  a  fighten'  gang, 
any  way,  fur  they're  comen'  slow  and  carryen'  some- 
then'." 

"A  flag  of  truce?  That  means  peace.  Thank  God!" 
said  Tillie,  fervently. 

"And  Genesee,"  added  the  Major. 

As  for  Rachel,  her  heart  seemed  in  her  throat.  She 
tried  to  speak,  to  rush  out  and  learn  their  message,  but 
she  could  not  move.  An  awful  presentiment  bound  her. 
' '  Carrying  something ! ' ' 


350  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"WHEN  THE  SUN  GOETH  DOWN." 

' '  O  pits  ah! — Klahowya. ' ' 

They  brought  him — his  dark,  sad-faced  brothers — 
bearing  him  on  a  bed  of  elastic  poles  and  the  skins  of 
beasts;  and  walking  through  the  lines  of  blue-coats  as 
if  not  seeing  them,  they  laid  him  on  the  floor  of  the 
shack,  and  grouped  themselves  clannishly  in  one  corner, 
near  his  head.  Stuart  knelt  with  trembling  hands 
to  examine  the  cruel  wound  in  the  throat,  and  turned 
away,  shaking  his  head.  He  could  not  speak.  There 
was  a  slow,  inward  hemorrhage.  He  was  bleeding  to 
death. 

" Determination  has  kept  him  alive,"  decided  the 
Major,  when  the  spokesman  of  the  Kootenais  told  of 
the  shot  on  the  mountain,  and  how  they  had  to  carry 
him,  with  Snowcap  in  his  arms,  to  the  wigwam  of 
Grey  Eagle;  of  the  council  through  which  he  kept  up, 
and  then  told  them  he  would  live  until  he  reached 
camp — he  was  so  sure  of  it!  For  the  body  of  Snow- 
cap  he  had  asked  the  horses  left  in  the  gulch,  and 
was  given  them — and  much  more,  because  of  the  sor 
row  of  their  nation.  He  did  not  try  to  speak  at  first, 
only  looked  about,  drinking  in  the  strange  kindness 
in  all  the  faces;  then  he  reached  out  his  hand  toward 
Rachel. 

"Opitsah!"  he  whispered,  with  that  smile  of  triumph 
in  his  eyes.  "I  told  you  I'd  live — till  I  got  back  to 
you;"  and  then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  Major.  "I  got 
a  stand-off  on  the  hostilities — till  your  return — inside 


"WHEN  THE  SUN  GOETH  DOWN."  351 

my  coat — I  wrote  it."  He  ceased,  gasping,  while  they 
drew  out  the  "talking-paper"  with  the  mark  of  Grey 
Eagle  at  the  foot,  and  on  it  also  were  their  murderous 
stains. 

"You — treat  with  them  now,"  he  continued,  "but— 
be  careful.  Don't  shirk  promises.  They're  easy  man 
aged  now — like  a  lot  of  children,  just  because  they  shot 
me — when  I  was  carrying  Snowcap  home.  But  they'll 
get  over — that,  and  then — be  careful.  They  were 
ready  for  the  war-path — when  I  got  there." 

He  saw  Captain  Holt  not  far  from  him,  and  through 
the  pallor  of  his  face  a  faint  flush  crept. 

"Well,  I've  come  back  for  my  trial,"  he  scowled, 
with  something  of  his  old  defiance;  and  the  Major  knelt 
down  and  took  his  hand. 

"That's  all  over,  Genesee,"  he  said  gently.  "It  was 
a  big  mistake.  There  is  not  a  soul  here  with  anything 
but  gratitude  and  admiration  for  you.  It  was  your  own 
fault  you  were  suspected;  Miss  Rachel  has  explained. 
Why  did  you  not?" 

He  did  not  answer — only  looked  at  her,  and  seemed 
gathering  his  strength  for  some  final  effort. 

"I  want  someone — to  write." 

He  was  still  holding  Rachel's  hand.  She  had  not 
said  a  word ;  only  her  eyes  seemed  to  tell  him  enough. 

Stuart  came  forward.     "Will  I  do,  Jack?" 

Jack  nodded,  and  more  than  one  was  astonished  at 
the  signs  of  grief  in  Stuart's  face.  Rachel  was  past 
speculation. 

"This  lady,  here,"  said  Genesee,  motioning  to  her, 
"has  done  a  heap  for  me—more  than  she  knows— I 
reckon — and  I  want — to  square  things." 

Rachel  attempted  to  speak;  but  he  raised  his  hand. 

"Don't,"  he  whispered.     "Let  me  say  it—tillikum" 


352  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Then  he  turned  to  Stuart.  "There's  a  bit  of  ground 
up  in  the  hills;  it's  mine,  and  I  want  her  to  have  it — 
it's  Tamahnous  Hill — and  the  old  mine — write  it." 

She  thought  of  that  other  woman,  and  tried  to 
protest.  Again  he  saw  it,  and  pressed  her  hand  for 
silence. 

"I  want  her  to  have  it — for  she  likes  these  hills,  and — 
she's  been  mighty  good  to  me.  No  one  will  interfere — 
with  her  claim — I  reckon." 

"No  one  shall  interfere,"  said  Stuart,  toward  whom 
he  looked.  Genesee  smiled. 

"That's  right — that's  all  right.  She  won't  be  afraid 
of  the — witches.  And  she'll  tell  you  where  I  want 
to  go — she  knows."  His  voice  was  growing  fainter; 
they  could  see  he  was  almost  done  with  the  Kootenai 
valley. 

"In  my  pocket  is  something — from  the  mine,"  he 
said,  looking  at  Rachel;  "it  will  show  you — and  there's 
another  will  in  the  bank — at  Holland's — it  is — for 
Annie." 

Stuart  guided  his  hand  for  the  signature  to  the  paper. 
Stuart  wrote  his  own,  and  Hardy  followed,  his  eyes 
opening  in  wonder  at  something  written  there. 

A  slight  rustle  in  the  group  at  the  door  drew  the 
Major's  attention,  and  a  young  face  coming  forward 
made  him  turn  to  Stuart. 

"I  had  altogether  forgotten  that  I  brought  someone 
from  Holland's  for  you — a  boy  sent  there  to  find  J.  S. 
Stuart.  I  knew  it  must  be  C.  S.  Stuart,  though,  and 
brought  him  along." 

A  dark-faced  little  fellow,  with  a  sturdy,  bright  look, 
walked  forward  at  the  commander's  motion;  but  his 
wondering  gaze  was  on  the  man  lying  there  with  such 
an  eager  look  in  his  eyes. 


"WHEN  THE  SUN  GOETH  DOWN."  353 

"This  is  Mr.  Stuart,"  said  the  Major,  and  then  turned 
to  Genesee. 

The  Stuart's  face  was  white  as  the  wounded  man's 
as  the  boy  looked  up  at  him,  frankly. 

"I'm — I'm  Jack,"  he  said;  "and  mamma  sent  a 
letter." 

The  letter  was  held  out,  and  the  boy's  plucky  mouth 
trembled  a  little  at  the  lack  of  welcome;  not  even 
a  hand-shake,  and  he  was  such  a  little  fellow — about 
ten.  But  Stuart  looked  like  a  man  who  sees  a  ghost. 
He  took  the  letter,  after  a  pause  that  seemed 
very  long  to  the  people  who  watched  his  strange  man 
ner.  Then  he  looked  at  the  envelope,  took  the  boy  by 
the  arm,  and  thrusting  the  Major  blindly  aside,  he 
knelt  by  Genesee. 

"This  is  for  you,  Jack,"  he  said,  motioning  the  others 
back  by  a  gesture — all  but  Rachel — that  hand-clasp 
was  so  strong!  "and  your  namesake  has  brought  it  ': 

"Read  it,"  and  he  motioned  Rachel  to  take  it;  "read 
me  Annie's  letter." 

She  read  it  in  a  low  tone — a  repetition  of  that  other 
plea  that  Jack  had  left  with  her,  and  its  finale  the  same 
longing  request  that  her  boy  should  at  last  be  let  know 
his  father.  Stuart  was  in  tears  when  she  fin 
ished. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "ten  years  is  a  long  time;  I've 
suffered  every  hour  of  them.  Give  me  the  boy;  let 
me  know  you  are  agreed  at  last.  Give  Annie  back  to 
me!" 

Jack  raised  his  hand  to  the  bewildered  boy,  who  took 
it  reverently. 

"You  are  Annie's  boy?"  he  whispered;  "kiss  me  for 
her — tell  her — "  And  then  his  eyes  sought  Stuart's — 
"  I  held  them  in  pawn  for  you.  I  reckon  you're  earnest 

I 


354  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

enough  now — to  redeem  them.  What  was  that  verse 
about — giving  back  the  pledge  when — the  sun  goes 
down?  You  read  it.  Mother  used  to  read  it — little 
mother!  She  will  be  glad,  I  reckon — she — " 

Stuart  was  sobbing  outright,  with  his  arms  about 
the  boy.  Rachel,  with  the  letter  in  her  hand,  was  as 
puzzled  as  those  who  had  drawn  out  of  hearing.  Only 
the  Indians  stood  close  and  impassive.  Jack,  meeting 
her  eyes,  smiled. 

"You  know  now — all  about — them — and  Annie. 
That  was  why  I  tried — to  keep  away  from  you — you 
know  now." 

But  she  did  not  know. 

"You  took  his  wife  from  him?"  she  said,  in  a  maze 
of  conflicting  revelations;  and  Jack  looked  at  Stuart, 
as  she  added,  "and  who  were  you?" 

"He  is  my  brother!"  said  Stuart,  in  answer  to  that 
look  of  Jack's.  "He  would  not  let  me  say  it  before — 
not  for  years.  But  he  is  my  brother!" 

The  words  were  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  and  there 
was  a  low  chorus  of  surprise  among  the  group.  All 
concealment  was  about  over  for  Genesee — even  the 
concealment  of  death. 

Then  Stuart  looked  across  at  Rachel.  He  heard 
that  speech,  "You  took  his  wife  from  him;"  and  he 
asked  no  leave  of  Jack  to  speak  now. 

"Don't  think  that  of  him,"  he  said,  steadily.  "You 
have  been  the  only  one  who  has,  blindfolded,  judged 
him  aright.  Don't  fail  him  now.  He  is  worth  all 
the  belief  you  had  in  him.  The  story  I  read  you 
that  night  was  true.  His  was  the  manhood  you 
admired  in  it;  mine,  the  one  you  condemned.  As  I 
look  back  on  our  lives  now,  his  seems  to  me  one 
immense  sacrifice — and  no  compensations — one  terri- 


'He  is  my  brother!"  said  Stuart.     Page  354. 


"WHEN  THE  SUN  GOETH  DOWN."  355 

ble  isolation;  and  now-now  everything  comes  to  him 
too  late!" 

"He  is-sorry,"  whispered  Genesee,  "and  talks  wild 
-but  —  you  know  now?" 

"Yes,"  and  the  girl's  face  had  something  of  the  solemn 
elation  of  his  own.  "Yes,  I  know  now." 

"And  you-will  live  in  the  hills-may  be?-not  so 
very  far  away  from-me.  In  my  pocket-is  something- 
from  the  mine-Davy  will  tell  you.  Be  good  to-my 
Kootenais;  they  think-a  heap  of  you.  Kalitan!" 

The  Arrow  came  forward,  and  shook  reverently  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  had  been  master  to  him  The 
eyes  roved  about  the  room,  as  if  in  search  of  others 
unseen.  Rachel  guessed  what  was  wanted,  and  mo- 
tioned  to  the  Indians. 

"Come;  your  brother  wants  you,"  she  said.     And  as 

they  grouped  about  him  and  her,  they  barred  out  the 

soldiers  and  civilians-the  white  brother  and  child- 

barred  out  all  from  him  save  his  friends  of  the  moun- 

ams  and  the  wild  places-the  haunts  of  exiles.     And 

the  g,rl,  as  one  by  one  they  touched  her  hand  at  his 

•equest,  and  circled  her  with  their  dark  forms,  seemed 

to  belong  to  them  too. 

led  J-T  th?7SnOW  »elts-the  flowers  are  on  that 
edge,  he  wbspered  with  his  eyes  closed,  "and  the 
birds-not  echoes-the  echoes  are  in  the  mine-don't 
be-afraid.  I'll  go  along-and  Mowitza  " 


at  her  ^  °Pened  Ms  <*«*  and  smiled 

h^'~y°Ur  f°d  wishes-a«d  kiss  me,  and  I'll 
ell,     was  the   characteristic  answer  given  so 


356  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

"And  you've  kissed  me — again!  Who  said — no  com 
pensation? — they — don't  know;  we  know — and  the 
moonlight,  and— yes— mother  knows;  she  thought,  at 
last_l  was  not— all  bad;  not  all— little  mother!  And 
now— don't  be  afraid;  I  won't  go— far— klahowya,  my 
girl — my  girl!" 

Then  one  Indian  from  the  circle  unslung  his  rifle  from 
his  shoulder  and  shattered  it  with  one  blow  of  an  axe 
that  lay  by  the  fire.  The  useless  thing  was  laid  beside 
what  had  been  Genesee.  And  the  owner,  shrouding 
his  head  in  his  blanket,  sat  apart  from  the  rest.  It  was 
he  of  the  bear  claws;  the  sworn  friend  of  Lamonti,  and 
the  man  who  had  shot  him. 

******* 

At  sunset  he  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  little  plateau 
on  Scot's  Mountain  that  faces  the  west.  He  was  borne 
there  by  the  Indians,  who  buried  in  his  grave  the  toma 
hawk  they  had  resurrected  for  the  whites  of  Camp 
Kootenai.  Mowitza,  rebelliously  impatient,  was  led 
riderless  by  Kalitan.  All  military  honors  were  paid 
him  who  had  received  no  honors  in  life,  the  rites  end 
ing  by  that  volley  of  sound  that  seals  the  grave  ^of  a 
soldier. 

Then  the  pale-faces  turned  again  to  the  south,  the 
dark-faces  took  the  trail  to  the  north,  and  the  sun  with 
a  last  flickering  blaze  flooded  the  snow  with  crimson, 
and  died  behind  the  western  peaks  they  had  watched 
light  up  one  morning. 


"RASHELL  OF  LAMONTI."  357 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  RASHELL    OF    LAMONTI.'* 

The  echoes  are  no  longer  silent  in  Tamahnous  Peak. 
The  witchcraft  of  silver  has  killed  the  old  superstition. 
The  ''something"  in  Genesee's  pocket  had  been  a 
specimen  that  warranted  investigation.  The  lost  tribe 
had  left  enough  ore  there  through  the  darkness  of 
generations  to  make  mining  a  thing  profitable.  Above 
those  terraces  of  unknown  origin  there  is  a  dwelling- 
house  now,  built  of  that  same  bewitched  stone  in  which 
the  echoes  sleep;  and  often  there  is  gathered  under  its 
roof  a  strange  household. 

The  words  of  Genesee,  "Be  good  to  my  Kootenais!" 
have  so  far  been  remembered  by  the  girl  who  during 
the  last  year  of  his  life  filled  his  thoughts  so  greatly. 
His  friends  are  her  friends,  and  medley  as  the  lot  would 
appear  to  others,  they  are  welcome  to  her.  They  have 
helped  her  solve  the  problem  of  what  use  she  could 
make  of  her  life.  Her  relatives  have  given  up  in  despair 
trying  to  alter  her  unheard-of  manner  of  living.  The 
idea  is  prevalent  among  them  that  Rachel's  mind,  on 
some  subjects,  is  really  queer — she  was  always  so 
erratic!  They  speak  to  her  of  the  loneliness  of  those 
heights,  and  she  laughs  at  them.  She  is  never  lonely. 
She  had  his  word  that  he  would  not  go  far.  With  her 
lives  old  Davy  MacDougall,  who  helps  her  much  in 
the  mining  matters,  and  Kalitan  is  never  far  off.  He 
is  her  shadow  now,  as  he  once  was  Genesee's.  Indian 
women  do  the  work  of  her  home.  A  school  is  there  for 


358  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

any  who  care  to  learn,  and  in  the  lodges  of  the  Koot- 
enais  she  is  never  forgotten  . 

It  seemed  strange  that  he  who  had  so  few  friends  in 
his  life  should  win  her  so  many  by  his  death.  The 
Indians  speak  of  him  now  with  a  sort  of  awe,  as  their 
white  brother  whose  counsels  were  so  wise,  whose 
courage  was  so  great;  he  who  forced  from  the  spirits 
the  secret  of  the  lost  mine.  He  has  drifted  into  tradi 
tion  as  some  wonderful  creature  who  was  among  them 
for  a  while,  disappearing  at  times,  but  always  coming 
back  at  a  time  of  their  need. 

To  Rachel  they  turn  as  to  something  which  they 
must  guard — for  he  said  so.  She  is  to  them  always 
"Rashell  of  Lamonti" — of  the  mountains. 

From  the  East  and  South  come  friends  sometimes 
—letters  and  faces  of  people  who  knew  him;  Miss  Fred, 
and  her  husband,  and  the  Major,  who  is  a  stanch  friend 
and  admirer  of  the  eccentric  girl  who  was  once  a  rebel 
in  his  camp;  and  in  reminiscences  the  roughness  of  his 
Kootenai  chief  of  scouts  is  swathed  in  the  gray  veil  of 
the  past — only  the  lightning-flashes  of  courage  are 
photographed  in  the  veteran's  memory. 

The  Stuart  and  his  wife  and  boy  come  there  some 
times  in  the  summer;  and  the  girl  and  little  Jack,  who 
are  very  fond  of  each  other,  ride  over  the  places  where 
the  other  Jack  Stuart  rode — nameless  for  so  long. 

As  for  Prince  Charlie,  his  natural  affection  for  chil 
dren  amounts  to  adoration  of  the  boy.  Rachel  won 
ders  sometimes  if  the  ideal  his  remorse  had  fostered 
for  so  long  was  filled  at  last  by  the  girl  whom  he  had 
left  a  delicately  tinted  apple-blossom  and  found  a 
delicate  type  of  the  invalid,  whose  ill-health  never 
exceeds  fashionable  indisposition.  If  not,  no  word  or 
sign  from  him  shows  it.  The  pretty,  ideal  phases  of 


"RASHELL  OF  LAMONTI."  359 

domestic  love  and  life  that  he  used  to  write  of,  are  not  so 
ready  to  his  pen  as  they  once  were  through  his  dreams 
and  remorse.  Much  changed  for  him  are  those  northern 
hills,  but  they  still  have  a  fascination  for  him  and  he 
writes  of  them  a  good  deal. 

"It  is  the  witchcraft  of  the  place,  or  else  it  is  you, 
Rachel,"  he  said,  once.  "Both  help  me.  When  life 
grows  old  and  stale  in  civilization,  I  come  up  here  and 
straightway  am  young  again.  I  can  understand  now 
how  you  helped  Jack." 

His  wife — a  pretty  little  woman  with  a  gently  appeal 
ing  air — never  really  understands  Rachel,  though  she 
and  Tillie  are  great  friends;  but,  despite  Tillie's  praise, 
Annie  never  can  discover  what  there  is  in  the  girl  for 
"Charlie  and  all  the  other  men  to  like  so  much — and 
even  poor,  dear  Jack,  who  must  have  been  in  love  with 
her  to  leave  her  a  silver  mine."  To  Annie  she  seems 
rather  clever,  but  with  so  little  affection!  and  not  even 
sympathetic,  as  most  girls  are.  She  heard  of  Rachel's 
pluck  and  bravery;  but  that  is  so  near  to  boldness! — 
as  heroes  are  to  adventurers;  and  Annie  is  a  very  prim 
little  woman  herself.  She  quotes  "my  husband"  a 
good  deal,  and  rates  his  work  with  the  first  writers  of 
the  age. 

The  work  has  grown  earnest;  the  lessons  of 
Rachel's  prophecy  have  crept  into  it.  He  has  in  so 
many  ways  justified  them — achieved  more  than  he 
hoped;  but  he  never  will  write  anything  more  fasci 
nating  than  the  changeless  youth  in  his  own  eyes,  or 
the  serious  tenderness  of  his  own  mouth  when  he 
smiles. 

"Prince  Charlie  is  a  rare,  fine  lad,"  old  Davy  remarked 
at  the  end  of  an  autumn,  as  he  and  Rachel  watched 
their  visitors  out  of  sight  clown  the  valley;  "a  man  fine 


300  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

enough  to  be  brother  to  Genesee,  an'  I  ne'er  was  wearied 
o'  him  till  I  hearkened  to  that  timorous  fine  lady  o'  his 
lilting  him  into  the  chorus  o'  every  song  she  sung. 
By  her  tellin*  she's  the  first  o'  the  wives  that's  ever  had 
a  husband." 

"But  she  is  not  a  fine  lady  at  all,"  contradicted 
Rachel;  "and  she's  a  very  affectionate,  very  good  little 
woman.  You  are  set  against  her  because  of  that  story 
of  long  ago — and  that  is  hardly  fair,  Davy  Mac- 
Dougall." 

"Well,  then,  I  am  not,  lass.  It's  little  call  I  have 
to  judge  children,  but  I  own  I'm  ower  cranky  when  I 
think  o'  the  waste  o'  a  man's  life  for  a  bit  pigeon  like 
that — an'  a  man  like  my  lad  was!  The  prize  was  no' 
worth  the  candle  that  give  light  to  it.  A  man's  life  is  a 
big  thing  to  throw  away,  lass,  an'  I  see  nothing  in 
that  bit  o'  daintiness  to  warrant  it.  To  me  it  's  a 
woeful  waste." 

The  girl  walked  on  beside  him  through  the  fresh, 
sweet  air  of  the  morning  that  was  filled  with  crisp 
kisses — the  kisses  that  warn  the  wild  things  of  the 
Frost-King's  coming.  She  was  separated  so  slightly 
from  the  wild  things  herself  that  she  was  growing 
to  understand  them  in  a  new  spirit — through  a  sym 
pathy  touched  less  by  curiosity  than  of  old.  She 
thought  of  that  man,  who  slept  across  on  Scot's  Moun- 
tian,  in  sight  of  Tamahnous  Peak;  how  he  had  understood 
them! — not  through  the  head,  but  the  heart.  Through 
some  reflected  light  of  feeling  she  had  lived  those  last 
days  of  his  life  at  a  height  above  her  former  level. 
She  had  seen  in  the  social  outlaw  who  loved  her  a 
soul  that,  woman -like,  she  placed  above  where  she 
knelt.  Perhaps  it  had  been  the  uncivilized  heroism, 
perhaps  the  unselfish,  deliberate  sacrifice,  appealing 


"RASHELL  OF  LAMONTI."  361 

to  a  hero-worshiper.  Something  finer  in  nature  than 
she  had  ever  been  touched  by  in  a  more  civilized  life 
had  come  to  her  through  him  in  those  last  days — not 
through  the  man  as  men  knew  him,  and  not  through  the 
love  he  had  borne  her — but  through  the  spirit  she  thought 
she  saw  there. 

It  may  have  been  in  part  an  illusion — women  have 
so  many — but  it  was  strong  in  her.  It  raised  up  her 
life  to  touch  the  thing  she  had  placed  on  the  heights, 
and  something  of  the  elation  that  had  come  to  him 
through  that  last  sacrifice  filled  her,  and  forbade  her 
return  into  the  narrowed  valleys  of  existence. 

His  wasted  life!  It  had  been  given  at  last  to  the 
wild  places  he  loved.  It  had  left  its  mark  on  the 
humanity  of  them,  and  the  mark  had  not  been  a  mean 
one.  The  girl,  thinking  of  what  it  had  done  for  her, 
wondered  often  if  the  other  lives  of  the  valley  that 
winter  could  live  on  without  carrying  indelible  coloring 
from  grateful,  remorseful  emotions  born  there.  She 
did  not  realize  how  transient  emotions  are  in  some 
people ;  and  then  she  had  grown  to  idealize  him  so  greatly. 
She  fancied  herself  surely  one  of  many,  while  really  she 
was  one  alone. 

"Yes,  lass — a  woeful  waste,"  repeated  the  old  man; 
and  her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  their  starting- 
place. 

"No!"  she  answered  with  the  sturdy  certainty  of 
faith.  "The  prodigality  there  was  not  wastefulness, 
and  was  not  without  a  method — not  a  method  of  his 
own,  but  that  something  beyond  us  we  call  God  or 
Fate.  The  lives  he  lived  or  died  for  may  seem  of 
mighty  little  consequence  individually,  but  what  is, 
is  more  than  likely  to  be  right,  Davy  MacDougall, 
even  if  we  can't  see  it  from  our  point  of  view." 


362  TOLD  IN  THE  HILLS. 

Then,  after  a  little,  she  added,  "He  is  not  the  first  lion 
that  has  died  to  feed  dogs — there  was  that  man  of 
Nazareth." 

Davy  MacDougall  stopped,  looking  at  her  with  fond, 
aged  eyes  that  shone  perplexedly  from  under  his  shaggy 
brows. 

"You're  a  rare,  strange  lass,  Rachel  Hardy,"  he  said 
at  last,  "an'  long  as  I've  known  ye,  I'm  not  ower  certain 
that  I  know  ye  at  all.  The  lad  used  to  be  a  bit  like 
that  at  times,  but  when  I  see  ye  last  at  the  night,  I'm 
ne'er  right  certain  what  I'll  find  ye  in  the  mornin'." 

"You'll  never  find  me  far  from  that,  at  any  rate," 
and  she  motioned  up  the  "Hill  of  the  Witches,"  and  on 
a  sunny  level  a  little  above  them  Mowitza  and  Kalitan 
were  waiting. 

"Then,  lass,  ye'll  ne'er  tak'  leave  o'  the  Kootenai 
hills?" 

"I  think  not.  I  should  smother  now  in  the  life  those 
people  are  going  to,"  and  she  nodded  after  the  depart 
ing  guests  who  were  going  back  to  the  world.  Then 
her  eyes  turned  from  the  mists  of  the  valleys  to  the 
whispering  peace  of  cedars  that  guard  Scot's  Mountain. 

"No,  Davy,  I'll  never  leave  the  hills." 

KLOSHE    KAH-KWA. 


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Jf 


1944 


JUL    5    1944 


N          1945 


yiMiv  OF  CALIF..  BERf 


LD  21-10m-5,  '43  (6061s) 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


Illll  ilBil  ••  •'  ••• 

C020B3M2B4 


925270 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


